


The Raven in Winter

by catieconqueso



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types, Assassin's Creed Valhalla
Genre: But maybe not, Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Just gals being pals, Light Smut, More tags to be added, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, Vikings, f/f if you squint, girl best friends, i just love eivor, if you get my meaning, lots of maybe accurate historical references, multiple POVs, random modern interludes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-22
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:20:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 39,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27665312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/catieconqueso/pseuds/catieconqueso
Summary: On the eve of her wedding, a familiar face arrives in Fornburg alongside two strangers, bringing with them a chance at adventure. When Sigrid reluctantly follows her husband to England and learns of the sinister forces that hunt him, she is thrust into a dangerous plot to control England. Will she and Eivor be able to unravel the web of mystery that surrounds their new home? Or are they destined to choke under the rule of the Order of the Ancients?This tale will span the events of the game and beyond as Sigrid and Eivor's journey unfolds.
Relationships: Eivor (Assassin's Creed)/Original Character(s), Eivor (Assassin's Creed)/Original Female Character(s), Original Female Character/Original Male Character, Randvi/Sigurd Styrbjornson
Comments: 10
Kudos: 47





	1. Prologue

A gaggle of orphans stood before him, and Styrbjorn knew that somewhere in the halls of Valhalla, his Gyda was laughing at the thought. Orphans, gods above, he had turned soft in his old age. What had he become, a fierce warrior turned even fiercer king, now a deliver of punishments to sopping wet children. “I shall ask again,” he stated as gently as he could through an annoyed exhale of breath, “who possessed the foolish idea to go onto the lake?”

The pair cast a fearful gaze at each other, the sound of their chattering teeth the only noise echoing through the longhouse. The younger of the pair spoke first, her response choked around the violent shaking of her limbs beneath the sodden wool of her grey shift.

“I did,” she answered, brown eyes cast towards the worn planks of the floor, her small feet shifting restlessly. “There was a hare on the ice, Uncle.” The girl babbled on, hurriedly defending the silent boy beside her. “I had fallen through the ice and Eivor saved me.”

“And who told you to go to the lake, Sigrid?” The girl fidgeted again, eyes traveling for a moment to land upon the youth sitting to Styrbjorn’s right before casting them again back to the floor.

Ah, so his suspicions had been correct. Predictably, his son caught the gaze of the girl with a pinched expression before quickly masking it with one of boredom. He would need to learn to school such expressions should he wish to become king. “Sigurd.” Styrbjorn motioned his son forward. “Was it you who brought your cousins to the lake?”

Sigurd did not answer, instead folded his arms across his chest, his expression more strained than before. “No, father.”

“Did to!” Eivor cried, roused from his silence. For a moment, the challenge that flashed in his blue eyes reminded Styrbjorn of his brother. “Sigurd said that if we did not go to the lake with him, the he would send trolls to throw us into the ocean!” Beside him, Sigrid nodded rapidly in agreement.

“Did not!” The older boy challenged, surging forward to grasp his cousin by the front of his tunic and hauled him from the ground. “I should pummel you for lying, _wolf-kissed.”_

“Uncle! Sigurd made us go to the lake,” Sigrid stammered, dark eyes wide in panic. “He wanted to go hunting, but no thrall would join him so he made us go!”

His son released Eivor with a grunt as he rounded on his younger cousin. When Sigurd moved to speak, Styrbjorn silenced him with a sharp glare. “Continue, Sigrid.”

“It was my fault that we went on the ice. I head his cries and rushed to save him when the ice gave way! Eivor swam in to save me,” Sigrid stammered. “Please don’t punish them, Uncle.”

“Your penchant for mercy rivals that of Eir, little one. For that, I shall spare you any punishment.” Sigrid bowed, her fingers wringing nervously behind her back. “You are dismissed. Find Hlif and have her draw you a bath before you catch a chill.” Sigrid cast one last fearful glance towards her cousins before scurrying off.

Styrbjorn exhaled sharply, thick fingers pinching at the bridge of his nose. “Why is it, between the three of you, Sigrid is the only one to have developed a pair of stones?”

“Father…” Sigurd was again silenced with a sharp glare.

“As punishment, the pair of you will clean the stables, and you will not be welcome at the feast til it is done. I am sure Torfi will appreciate the reprieve.” Styrbjorn waved his hand to dismiss the boys.

“Father!” Sigurd exclaimed, blue eyes sharp and bright with barely harnessed rage. “I am the son of a king, I shall not do the work of a thrall! Have Eivor do it! He seems content to wallow in the muck!”

“Enough!’ Styrbjorn tore to standing, silencing his son. “I am your king and your father, and you shall do as I say.”

Sigurd tore from the hall with a half muttered curse, Eivor silently trailing after him, leaving Styrbjorn alone in the now silent hall. Now he was certain that Gyda would be laughing at him. Between his son’s fiery temper and the rambunctiousness of his wards, she would have scolded him so. _You must have a heavy hand with such children_ , Gyda had chided when Sigurd had entered his eighth year and had ordained himself as a master horseman. Two broken arms later, Styrbjorn had been at a loss on curbing his son’s temperament. Gyda had been patient, always so patient, Styrbjorn thought with a sigh. Gods grant him to have such patience. For, now alone, he was certain he would not live to see the promised glory of old age.

At least Eivor would accept his punishment, and though he would complain, Sigurd would as well. And not long after, Sigrid would join them as she always did, dutifully suffering alongside her cousins. Perhaps he had done a good enough job raising at least one of his wards.

And as he had predicted, Sigrid snuck away from the feast to join her cousins in the stable. With a small smile she pressed sweet rolls into each of their hands. And once the trio finished their treats, Sigrid took her place in Sigurd’s stead with a murmur of wishes that he may enjoy the feast.

“Siggy?” Eivor called her name from between the stalls, his dark head of hair poking up just above the wooden slats. Sigrid appeared at the edge of the stall, small fingers gripping the handle of her broom. “Go to bed.”

“We aren’t finished sweeping,” she answered, voice soft, her brown eyes blinking owlishly at him in the dim light.

“Uncle punished Sigurd and I.”

“It was my fault we got caught.” She had resumed her sweeping, the quiet brush of the horse hair broom nearly lost over the sound of feasting beyond the stable doors. “And we’ll finish faster if there are two of us.”

When Styrbjorn awoke the next morning, head still clouded with honeyed mead and celebration, he found none of his wards to greet him at breakfast. “Must still be sleeping,” he groused, polishing off the last of his breakfast. He would take Sigurd hunting that morning, he thought, casting a glance at his son where he slumped against the table, softly snoring. And perhaps Eivor as well.

Sigurd roused easily enough, plied with the promise of hunting and watered down ale, and when father and son reached the stables, quite the sight greeted them.

As instructed, the stable had been swept, the horses fed, the stalls cleaned. But what brought a gentle smile to the old king’s face was the sight of his wards, wrapped about each other like kits, fast asleep in the straw.


	2. Chapter One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We were married at Midsummer beneath the flowering tree that sat at the foot of the mountains. I had smiled so much on that day that Eivor had teased me for the weeks to follow. And each time he soothed me with sweet words of how I looked as beautiful as Freya herself in my crown of white flowers and my father’s sword upon my hip.

_Longships_! The cry startled me from my weaving, small fingers catching in the loom. I pulled them back with a sharp curse and a hiss of pain, shoving the digits into my mouth to soothe the ache blossoming there. Hlif answered with a disapproving glare and I quickly withdrew my fingers with an audible pop.

Beside me, Randvi gently set down her weaving with a sigh. I cast a cautious glance toward the other woman, failing to gauge her reaction to the news through her usual stoic mask. I often envied her ability to mask her emotions, though it was easy enough to spot the toll two years of separation had taken on her. I could see it now in the way her fingers gripped the cloth in her lap too tightly. “Do you think Sigurd has returned,” I asked sitting taller on the bench to stare through the window at the growing crowd near the docks.

“I would sooner think that it is Eivor slinking home at last,” Randvi answered, and I found myself nodding in agreement as I cast one last glance towards the window. Eivor had been gone nearly two months now, absconding in the night with a longship against our Uncle’s instruction.

I had awoken on the night he left to find him perched in the window of my small bedroom, the dying light of the fire casting him in a soft glow. He had looked much like Odin in that moment, straight from the stories Hlif had told to us as children.

“Siggy? Are you awake?” He had whispered so softly the sound was nearly lost of the soft crackling of burning logs.

“Eivor?” I blinked owlishly up at him, fingers pulling the thick furs to my chin to cover my thin shift. “What are you doing?” Eivor quietly slipped into my room, his thick boots surprisingly quiet as he crossed to sit beside me.

“Saying goodbye,” he answered, body warm as lay beside me. It was an act he had not done since we were children. I tensed at the feel of his thick arm heavy about my waist.“Your uncle means to remain in Fornburg until Sigurd returns. I am taking a longship to raid.” It was an old argument, one that had resulted in a shouting match that evening, the likes of which would have made the gods jealous at the thunder it produced.

“But, Uncle said…” Eivor silenced me with a soft jab of his elbow to my side. “You mean to go anyway?”

Eivor did not answer.

“Take me with you,” I blurted out, turning to face him. I could barely make out his features in the soft firelight, but by the way his brow furrowed at my words, I could tell he was not pleased.

“Do you remember when you came to Fornburg? A little girl who had lost both her parents?” His hand on my waist was gentle as he pressed me back onto my side, his body slotting against mine.

I hummed in agreement, settling back against him. Eivor pressed his nose to the exposed skin of my neck with a sharp exhale.

“Father had gone to Valhalla, and mother not long after,” I replied softly, eyes focused on the soft orange light the fire cast upon my walls.

“You were so small, so scared,” Eivor murmured, the softness of his voice lulling me back to sleep. “I swore to you that day I would keep you safe.”

I giggled at the memory of Eivor, then a gangly boy taking my hands in his after Sigurd had pulled my hair and declaring that he would be my protector. “From terribly cruel cousins. Do you mean to raid a settlement of bandits who pull on little girl’s braids?”

Eivor laughed, a deep rich sound that surrounded me with unbidden warmth. “Shall I bring you their leader’s head upon a pike, my lady?”

“If you wish, wolf kissed,” I answered, giggling at the soft nip of teeth upon the skin of my neck. “Though would prefer jewels as tribute. Or an offer of marriage from a handsome warrior. “ I answered, sleep beginning to at last overtake me, loosening my tongue. And before I could slap my hand over my lips, Eivor pulled me closer, his hand tight on my belly to silence my squirming.

“Go to sleep, little one” he murmured, mercifully unaffected by my words. Or if he had been, he made no sign of it. And so I did, the warmth of him against me pulling me gently down into a peaceful sleep, and when I awoke in the morning, he was gone.

Eivor Wolfsmal had not returned in two months, and the marketplace became fat with rumors that he had been captured and made to serve Kjotve the Cruel as a thrall. I had never been one for those rumors.

The sounds of the gathering crowd had finally reached the longhouse, thought as I strained to listen, I could not make the words they said. Hlif tutted, a sharp sound startling me back to the room around me and the two women gazing disapprovingly towards me.

“Perhaps it is Eivor returned after all,” I answered, trying hard to keep my voice even, uninterested. I was the ward of the king after all, I could imagine Hlif instructing me as though the words had been said aloud, and I must behave as such.

“I heard a rumor in the market that he means to ask your uncle for your hand in marriage,” Hlif answered, returning to her weaving. “I wonder what treasures he brings to pay your bride price for the wolf-kissed has no wealth of his own.”

I had heard the rumors as well, for they had followed me whenever I left the longhouse. Eivor Wolfsmal had indeed intend to ask for my hand, that much I knew. It had been a truth we had been dancing about since he had kissed me at the Yule celebration nigh a year ago under the shining green lights that shifted in the sky above us.

Our courtship had been secretive, stolen kisses, brief presses of fingers, gifts pressed into hands behind backs as we passed in the longhouse. I longed to embrace him each time he returned, fresh from battle. I had instead stood awkwardly beside Randvi as he greeted my uncle as was customary, biding my time at the feast til I could slip away to our meeting spot in the stables.

Each time I caught his gaze over a tankard of mead or found him staring at me over the crowd, I longed to do so without shame. And though I had pressed many times for him to ask my uncle for permission to marry, my brave warrior’s courage failed him.

“May I go to the docks?” I finally dared to cast a wistful glance towards Hlif who dropped her own weaving with an exasperated sigh.

“Go, you ill mannered beast,” Hlif answered with a pinched expression, her thin lips pulled tight in a grimace. Randvi paired her gentle smile with a wave of encouragement and a promise to join me later. I tore my apron free, tossing the brown fabric uncouthly to the floor.

With a bright smile and a quick stammer of thanks, I tore through the longhouse, pausing just long enough to greet my uncle and his guest with whom he conversed with a polite smile before continuing into the street. Fornburg was crowded, I thought, picking my way through the throngs of the busy market towards the docks. I ducked quickly into the small alley behind Svend’s shop, a short cut I had used countless times to reach the docks. The day before he had sailed, Eivor had pressed me sweetly between the hard form and the cool wood and kissed me til I could scarcely breathe. My fingers traced over my full lips at the memory as cries of Wolf-Kissed and Eivor echoed from the street ahead. Overhead, the squawking of a raven cut through the noise of the crowd.

“Sýnin!” I cried with a bright smile as with one last squawk, the raven crested the building and landed on my shoulder with a friendly chirp. “Hello, pretty bird, I’ve missed you so,” I cooed, fingers stroking the silky feathers beneath the raven’s chin. The comforting weight of the raven on my shoulder helped soothe my rabbit heart as I scanned the crowd. Sýnin cawed in answer, beak pulling at the loose hair of my braid impatiently. “What sort have wonders have you seen?”

“Wolves, as big as horses and trolls as big as wolves. Mountains so tall they blocked out all light. Maidens so fair they rival Freya herself,” came the reply, calloused fingers flicking a lock of dark hair from where it had fallen in front of my eyes. “I see you have charmed Sýnin, you minx.”

Eivor Wolfsmal clicked his tongue, chin motioning to his shoulder expectantly. Sýnin squawked once in disinterest before returning to pull at my hair. “Traitor,” he hissed before turning to smile brightly at me. My heart warmed at the sight, and I found myself answering with a smile of my own as I surveyed the man before me. He appeared to be whole, from the cocky grin that peeked from below his thick dark beard to the way he folded his arms over his broad chest as he stood ever so still. Poised, waiting.

“It appears your raven simply prefers my company to yours, wolf-kissed.” I scratched Sýnin’s chin one last time before she took to the sky. “And I don’t blame her for doing so. I am ever so charming.” I worried my bottom lip, stifling the girlish giggle that bubbled in my throat.

“Come here, little one,” Eivor commanded, his thick fingers crooked, beckoning me to him. And I answered, launching myself into his outstretched arms with a joyous laugh. “I’ve missed you.”

“And I you,” I breathed into the warm fabric at his chest, a height I just barely reached. He smelled still very much like Eivor, pine and soap and the sharp tang of the sea. Your Eivor, some dark part of my mind added as I reluctantly let him go. Though I wished he would press his lips to my own even if we were surrounded by the surge of onlookers. “I think my Uncle may be less pleased with your return.”

“Is he ever pleased with me?” Eivor’s arm was heavy as he draped it about my shoulder and steered us towards the longhouse. I found myself leaning into his embrace. “If I returned from battle surrounded by a host of valkyries, I’m afraid your uncle would still find some grievance with me. You shall just have to charm him as you have always done, Siggy.”

“You shall have to do better than that, Wolf-Kissed, if you mean to gain my Uncle’s favor.” I teased as the longhouse came into view. Eivor hesitated, pausing as he turned to me, expression suddenly serious. I faltered, pulling back at the heavy cloud that suddenly hung between us, as heavy as the weight of his hands upon my shoulders.

“Sigrid.” The sharp exhale of my name gave me pause. I knew what he meant to say next, though I found myself tensing at the words that spilled forth from between his thinned lips. “I intend to ask your uncle for permission to marry.” His words were hushed, soft, and I suspected it was to mask the sound from the crowd around us.

“That is good news, elskan mín,” I murmured, fingers lacing with his, hidden by light blue fabric of my skirts.I studied his clear blue eyes, the sincerity there. And the brief flash of unsettled nerves. Always so easy to read, my brave warrior.

Eivor squeezed my fingers, my eyes fluttering shut at the feel of his calloused skin rasping over my own. “I find myself longing for the moment I can embrace you without worrying about the prying eyes of others.”

“Wait for me, at the stables, just after sundown, ástin mín” he murmured, face ducking to rest his chin upon my shoulder. His broad chest pressed to my own, the heat of his body warming my own even through the thick layers of our clothing. His lips ghosted over my pulse hammering beneath my jaw, ever so softly before he straightened, pinning me with a crooked grin as he stalked off towards the longhouse.

* * *

We were married at Midsummer beneath the flowering tree that sat at the foot of the mountains. I had smiled so much on that day that Eivor had teased me for the weeks to follow. And each time he soothed me with sweet words of how I looked as beautiful as Freya herself in my crown of white flowers and my father’s sword upon my hip.

“Are you happy, ástin mín?” He asked when we had finally settled at our bridal table, both still breathless from the bridal race and sufficiently drunk on our shared ale. “You have a glow about you tonight. A man might think you have eaten Iðunn's apples, for you truly are a goddess, my love.”

I wrinkled my nose at the endearment, too sentimental, even for my warrior poet. “Unbearably so, elskan mín. I think I shall die and go to Valhalla from joy before the evening is through.” I choked as I forced another mouthful of ale past my lips. “Or the ale shall finish me first.” When I choked down another mouthful, my husband pulled my flagon from my fingers with a deep chuckle.

“Perhaps you should leave the ale for me, ástin mín, so that you may remember what is left of our wedding night.” Eivor finished the last of the flagon with a deep gulp before refilling it from the seemingly endless bowl of amber mead before us. Eivor had once compared my eyes to the amber color of mead, my hazy mind recalled. Yet the thought did not offer any comfort and I glared at the bowl before us as though I could will it to empty through my willpower alone.

“I do not think we shall ever see our wedding night, for you have drank three flagons already, and I do believe there is more ale here than when we started.” In truth, though I would never admit such a thing to the man who sat beside me, I was glad the feast would be a drawn out affair.

Randvi had explained what would occur upon my wedding night as she helped that morning to dress me in my ornate gown. Eivor and I would finally know each other as husband and wife, though I hadn’t the heart to tell her that our courtship had not been exactly chaste, often stopping just short of indecency.

And the act of lying with Eivor as husband and wife was not what scared me. In fact, I was very much eager to couple with him.

It was the fact that six must bear witness to that coupling for our marriage to be consider consummate. My uncle, Randvi, a priest, and three strangers would each have to watch as Eivor and I rut like beasts beneath the furs. The priest would declare our marriage official, and that would be the end of it.To ensure I was intact, Randvi had explained with a sympathetic smile when I wrinkled my nose at her words.

“With Eivor above you, you shan’t know we are even there,” Randvi soothed as she brushed out my tangled mane of dark hair. “And you’ll find it will be over far faster than you imagined.”

“Was it so when Sigurd and you married?” I drew my knees to my chest beneath my shift, my chin resting upon the scratchy fabric. I had not been witness to her wedding night, for I had been too young and unwed at the time.

“Our marriage is very different from yours,” Randvi answered with a heavy sigh, her fingers catching in my hair and drawing a pained hiss from my lips. “Our love did not come until much later.”

Warm lips that tasted faintly of ale pressed to mine, the rasp of dark beard against my skin drawing me sharply from my thoughts. I gaped at my husband, at the wicked glint in his blue eyes as he finally drew back, his breath warm pants upon the skin of my cheek.

“You are leagues away, ástin mín,” Eivor murmured, calloused thumb brushing over bottom lip. “What troubles you so?”

I did not answer, instead grabbing the flagon from his hands to set it before us. I fidgeted, words failing me, and I was unsure if it was from the nerves or shame that burned in my blood. “My thoughts linger upon our wedding night, elskan mín.”

Eivor answered with a sharp smirk, his fingers trailing down my neck to trace along the fluttering pulse that lay beneath my pale skin. “I find myself lingering there as well.” When I did not respond, his fingers slowed upon my skin, his dark brow knit in concern. “I will not hurt you, ástin mín. I promise that for as long as we both live, no harm will befall you by my hands.” My serious warrior and his pledge did little to calm my nerves.

“Its not that,” I murmured, “I am quite looking forward to that part.” My cheeks were aflame, burning hotter than the fire before us. “It is that we must do so in front of others, Randvi, my uncle. I shall die of shame, Eivor.” I turned away from him, my burning face hidden behind my hands.

“My sweet Sigrid,” Eivor soothed, large hands pulling mine to rest in his lap. “Everyone shall be too drunk to remember anything. Besides,” he pinned me with a wicked smile, “the only sight they shall be treated to is that of my bare arse.”

I giggled at the thought, the ale finally coursing through my blood enough to relax the nerves that twisted in my gut. “That would be quite the sight, husband.” I teased, suddenly brave enough to press a quick kiss to his lips. “Though you shall need to finish our bridal ale first.”

Eivor answered with a wink as he refilled our flagons, though I noted mine had only been half full.

“Ships on the horizon!” The cry came from somewhere near the entrance of the longhouse, and Eivor answered by rising quickly, his hand flying to Varrin’s axe belted at his waist.

“Stay in the longhouse,ástin mín,” Eivor ordered with a quick press of his lips to my forehead, “I shall return soon.” He was gone and in his place was Randvi, her hands cool in mine.

“Would Kjotve be so bold?” I asked her, my own hand gripping hers too tightly. “To attack on our wedding day?”

“Eivor will handle it,” Randvi answered, though I was unsure if it was to soothe my nerves or my own. “Do not worry, Sigrid. It is your wedding after all.”

No sound of battle followed Eivor’s departure, and after a short while, I found myself relaxing enough to sip at the mead Randvi offered. She distracted me with tales of her own wedding, of truths and knowledge on how to care for and please one’s husband, until my own finally returned.

He appeared hale as he crossed to press a sweet kiss to my lips. No wounds covered his skin, nor any gore marred his armor.

“I have a surprise for you, ástin mín,” he answered with a bright smile and another kiss. I followed his gaze to entrance of the longhouse.

And there stood Sigurd Jarl flanked by two strangers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ástin mín/elskan mín roughly translate as my dearest/my darling. Basically Viking pet names!
> 
> To explain the six witness tradition, in a Viking wedding, a minimum of six people from both families must witness the newlyweds in their marriage bed. (Yikes!)
> 
> If any of my translations or phrases don’t make sense, please let me know. I’m using the Icelandic translations as that’s the closest you can get to original Norse.


	3. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It had been an odd moment, when a swaggering Sigurd approached his father, as though the world hung on the point of a sword. One tip and all would be lost, and when father and son embraced, it was as if time had once again begun to flow.

It had been an odd moment, when a swaggering Sigurd approached his father, as though the world hung on the point of a sword. One tip and all would be lost, and when father and son embraced, it was as if time had once again begun to flow. Sigurd had brought with him tales of far off lands. Tales that loosened nerves and tongues alike and soon the longhouse had shed the odd tension that had hung in the air.

Beside me, Randvi had been so still I was unsure if she drew breath. “Go to him,” I whispered, gently squeezing her hand to draw her from her stupor.

She approached slowly, cautiously, and when the two finally embraced, a storm of emotions naked upon their faces, I wondered if I would have felt the same. Would I have been able to endure such a parting? Randvi had been stoic, firm, and when I often pressed her on the matter, she had remained silent or simply did not answer.

It was only when we lay tangled in my bed, on the eve of my wedding, with dawn fast approaching, that she admitted her dissatisfaction at her husband’s absence.

“I am expected to appear as a weepy maiden,” she whispered, cool fingers brushing my dark hair from my cheek. “But how can I act such a part when Sigurd and I have known each other for so little and I have grown so fond of my freedom.”

“You are permitted to spread your wings as you see fit, sister,” I replied, squeezing her fingers with my own. “And should my cousin never return, you will have a place at my table.

“Sigurd is too stubborn to perish in such a way,” she admitted with a giggle, her face pressed to my shoulder. “And to leave his glory so unclaimed? He would sooner sacrifice his own eye.”

“Rightly so.” I settled my cheek upon her head with a gentle sigh. “Then you shall have to embrace him as a good wife when he returns, and only you and I shall know the truth of your affections.”

“And Eivor,” Randvi teased with an unladylike snort. “For I know you whisper all my secrets to him when you are alone.”

Now, as the pair unsurely held each other, I could see the forced smile upon her face, the way her hands did not dare to linger on Sigurd’s jaw longer than necessary. I knew she had chosen duty over her own emotions. Their reunion continued for a moment longer, Sigurd and Randvi sharing a chaste kiss, cheers echoing around them, before parting.

Soon they were joined by my bear of a husband, his hands clapped on their shoulders in a warm embrace. When I finally joined them, I found myself as unsure as she, my touch light when I finally dared to settle my hand on Eivor’s forearm.

“Brother, may I introduce my wife, Sigrid Arnesdottir.” I was pushed forward towards Sigurd, and without laying eyes upon him, I knew my husband’s lips were split in a wide grin.

“Married?” Sigurd smiled charmingly, feigned surprised poorly concealed in his expression. I rolled my eyes in return. “Little Siggy? When I departed you were but a girl, and now I find you are married to this brute!” Travel had tempered Sigurd’s wild moods, that much was evident.

“Much has changed, cousin. As it seems, so have you.” I embraced Sigurd with a smile, part of me overjoyed to have our small family together again. “Come tell us of your travels. We have plenty of ale to share at our table.”

Sigurd lounged at our bridal table drinking heartily as he regaled us with a tale of a land covered in coarse dirt he called sand. Randvi sat beside him, her tense countenance bleeding away as quickly as she drained the ale before her. “An ocean of sand, smooth as snow, brother, as far as a man could see.”

If I closed my eyes, I could picture it, the coppery mounds baked and warmed in the sunlight. I could feel the warmth as hot as raging fire upon my skin, the warm wind that blew through my unbound hair. “I wish I could have seen it,” I sighed, dark eyes fluttering open to regard my cousin with a dreamy smile. Sigurd returned it with a bright smile of his own.

“I intended to bring your husband with me in late summer raids, perhaps you may join us, cos.” His laugh rang out through the hall when I cast a hopeful glance towards Eivor.

“And leave me so alone,” Randvi laughed over her flagon of ale.

“You could come with us,” I offered, reaching across the table to take her hand in my own. “We shall be the fiercest pair of shield maidens and strike terror into the hearts of our enemies.”

“That you shall, little wife,” my husband mused, warm lips pressing to my hair with a gentle smile. “You shall intimidate children all over the land with your mighty size.” My fingers slapped his chest with a dull thud, Eivor answering with a pained grunt.

“And leave your uncle alone with Hlif? I fear they should drive each other mad before we return. It is good you returned so soon, husband,” Randvi continued, a gentle smile upon her lips, “for I should be driven mad by this one as well.”

“Yes, wife, it is fortunate I returned in time to save you from the wedding feast.”

“Fortunate indeed,” Eivor answered in my stead, his arm shifting where it draped heavily across my shoulders. “And what of your companions?” I followed his gaze to Sigurd’s strange pair of companions who talked between themselves in the shadowy corner behind the ale casks. “They seem a curious pair.”

Sigurd leaned forward, his answer scarce a whisper. The sound of music swelled through the longhouse as dancing struck up around us, drowning out the words passed between them. “Go dance with your wife, brother. We shall speak more on this matter later.”

“Will you join us, cousin,” I asked, smiling brightly at Randvi who answered with a strained flash of teeth.

“Alas, cos, I must speak with my companions.” He rose from the table, and I did not fail to notice the tension bleed from Randvi’s shoulders. “Enjoy your dance. We shall speak later.”

“He seems in good spirits,” I murmured to my husband once we were out of earshot. “And it has done Randvi good that he has returned. I have not seen her so at ease in a long while.”

“Indeed,” Eivor agreed, his hand heavy in mine, though he did not steer us towards the slowly growing crowd of dancing couples. When I stilled, he urged me forward with a soft smile till we stood in the frigid air, the sound of the feast a dull roar at me back. In the distance, Sýnin’s calls echoed softly from the mountain tops.

“What of dancing, elskan mín,” I asked when his hands settled heavily upon my waist to draw my head to his chest. “And what will people think? Stealing your bride away like a thief, wolf-kissed?”

“Exactly as you say, ástin mín, that I am a selfish bridegroom eager to be alone with my new wife.” His lips chased after mine, stopped only when I pressed my hand against his chest.

“And what of my virtue,” I teased, slipping just out of reach with a sly grin. “I fear to be alone with a brute such as you, husband, my virtue shall not remain unscathed.”

“An honest point, ástin mín,” he murmured, his hands suddenly upon my hips to haul my body back against his. “The temptation is too great.” His lips traced the line of my jaw, coarse beard tickling my skin to pull a series of giggles from my lips. “And you shall find I am a weak man.”

“Eivor,” I warned sharply, hands pulling at his own once they had traveled to cup at my breasts through the fabric of my dress, and against my bottom, a clothed hardness pressed insistently. “We must wait.” My hands only pulled half heartedly, for my body pressed eagerly back towards his. A soft moan, quickly silenced by his warm hand clamped over my lips, spilled forth when his thumb and forefinger pinched at my clothed nipple.

“Ástin mín,” he groaned into the skin of my neck, hand trailing down past my belly to sink between my clothed thighs. “This will help, but you must keep quiet.”

I whined in response, a high pitched needy sound that had never before tumbled from my lips, my head falling back to thump against his chest. Eivor’s fingers worked quickly between my thighs, tight, rough circles round the apex til my body pulled tight as a bowstring and I cried his name into the skin of his palm.

“Where did you learn that elskan mín,” I murmured once my voice was no longer a series of sharp breaths and I could again think over the haze of pleasure that coursed through my veins. Eivor answered with a press of lips sweetly to the corner of my jaw.

“Ah well,” he was gone then ducking away to rub at the back of his neck, “Sigurd may have mentioned a few things about the marriage bed.” When I turned sharply to gape at him, I found his cheeks as flushed as my own, his gaze focused too intently on the moon above us.

“Eivor you didn’t…”

“We only talked a little,” he admitted, hand still rubbing his neck, the flush on his cheeks deepening. “He explained that the first time can be…unpleasant for a woman.”

“Please do not tell me you have discussed such things with my cousin,” I whined, my face buried behind my hands.

“And your uncle,” he continued. And I prayed that I would sink straight to into the ground. Or burst into flames, the warmth from the splotchy redness on my chest and cheeks would serve as kindling. “They were…ah, eager to provide their advice on how to please a woman in bed.”

“Advice? By the gods, I shall never be able to face them again.”

“You shall, ástin mín,” he answered, fingers gentle as they pried my own from my face. “Now come, we should return before they notice we are gone.” I allowed Eivor to link our hands as we walked back to the feast, and straight into raucous cheers.

And though I had thought it impossible, my cheeks were set further aflame with embarrassment. Mercifully Eivor appeared unaffected, receiving most of the jeers and claps on the back as we wound our way back to our bridal table.

“Come now, wife” he announced, arms wrapping about my waist to haul me close. “Finish your ale, for I grow tired of waiting.”

He was playing the part of the eager bridegroom and playing it well as he pressed my flagon to my lips and urged me to drink the small amount of ale left inside. And with a hearty roar, Eivor Wolf-Kissed finished his own in a single swallow, his hand still a heavy weight on my hip. And hidden out of sight, his thumb stroked softly up and down along the seam of my dress to still my nerves.

“Run along, ástin mín,” he whispered into my ear with a swat on my bottom. “I shall join you in our marriage bed soon.”

* * *

“You shall worry a hole through the floorboards with your fidgeting,” Hlif chided as she fastened the last tie on my camise with a disapproving cluck. Randvi and I met each others' gaze, a silent smile shared between us.

“There,” Randvi declared, her fingers deftly tying off my simple braid, “Eivor shall be unable to resist you.” Her fingers were cold where they brushed my hair from my shoulder.

I answered with a forced smile, my bare feet tapping nervously as I fought the urge to pace.

“Do not worry, Sigrid, you shall be fine,” she soothed, taking my hands in her own and settling us against the bed. “Hlif, please see what is keeping the bridegroom and my husband.” Before Randvi whisked me from the longhouse to my new home, I had caught one last glance of Eivor as he approached Sigurd and the pair of strangers. I wondered if that had been what was keeping him, though I was thankful it gave me a moment alone to collect my nerves.

“Randvi,” I breathed, fingers wrung into knots in my lap, “will it hurt?” I glanced up at the gothi who stood mercifully silent near the door before settling my hands back on my lap to pull at the thin fabric of my camise. “I should be excited to at last know Eivor in the way a wife knows her husband, but I find that instead of excitement, I am afraid.”

“It will,” she admitted, hands taking mine, “though I suspect Eivor will ensure you are comfortable before taking his own pleasure. And it is perfectly natural to be nervous, Siggy. I felt the same on my own wedding night.”

“He already has,” I breathed, my voice soft as I cast another wary glance toward the gothi, who if he heard my words did not acknowledge them. My cheeks were aflame again at the memory, the heat at least chasing away the chill.

“I could tell.” Randvi smiled her thumb a soft pressure on my wrist. “You had such a beautiful pink flush to your cheeks when you returned.”

“He said Sigurd taught him. Some trick with his fingers that…” my cheeks grew warm again, “ it felt like I had died and gone to Valhalla.”

“Ah, I know that trick well,” she murmured, “for it was I who showed it to Sigurd on our own wedding night.” Her thumb stroked again, and I found myself resting against her shoulder, the storm brewing in my chest slowing to a dull ache. “I am glad it served you well. I shall have to show you others when we have a moment alone.”

“I would like that.” I could hear the sound of loud voices approaching just outside the door, and the storm of nerves once again began to swirl inside me. “Gods grant me courage,” I murmured, reluctantly standing to greet the small party led by the proud figure of my uncle, Styrbjorn King.

“Hello, little one,” Styrbjorn greeted, his hands warm upon his shoulder as he embraced me. “You have grown into a fine woman. Your father would have been proud.” My heart clenched at his words, an unspoken thing that I had tried not to dwell upon. Instead of Randvi, it should have been my own mother who dressed me and braided my hair. And instead of my uncle, my father to give me away. “As would yours,” he told Eivor as he pressed our hands together.

The gothi read his blessing, smeared blood upon our brows, and begun his prayer to Freya, though I did not truly hear it. I found myself instead focusing upon clear blue eyes that met my own, on the soft curling hair peeked from beneath the neckline of his own tunic, the crooked smile that softened his harsh features. And when the gothi finally led us to our shared bed, I finally allowed myself to glance about the room.

My uncle at the foot of the bed, hands clasped in front of him as he conversed with the priest on the bride price. Sigurd and Randvi to my right, her, an encouraging smile, he, a crude wink and gesture to my new husband. And finally to Hlif and the bear like man Sigurd had called Dag, whom Eivor had chosen as his witness. I hadn’t failed to notice the crass remarks the man had made when they had entered. And when Eivor climbed above me, I shifted to hide myself from view.

I was pressed back to straw mattress, and I was certain every person in the too small room could hear the rapid beating of my heart. Eivor was above me then, his weight settling into my hips. “Breath, Sigrid,” he whispered, just soft enough that only I could hear. The furs were draped upon us, allowing for some small measure of privacy. The gothi called out one last blessing and motioned for us to continue with little concern, as though it was as little consequence to him.

“I can’t.” My eyes were fixed just over his shoulder on a thin rope that hung from the beams. I was going to vomit, the bile burning in my throat, my nerves knotting painfully in my gut.

Eivor’s hands shifted to rest on my hips and my breath came sharper, harsher than before, and I swore I would faint from the sensation of it all. Instead, I gazed at that rope, the way it swayed ever so gently. I was like the rope, my emotions, fear casting me about like a leaf in a stream, and I scrabbled for land, for purchase.

This was Eivor, my mind cried, kind and loving Eivor. I had dreamed of this moment for so long, yet the thought did nothing to calm my trembling. I knew if I met my husband’s gaze, what remained of my resolve would crack.

“Do it. Please, elskan mín,” I begged, hands fisted into the mattress to still my shaking fingers.

Eivor was hard and heavy against my thigh, and even through the fabric of our clothing, I could feel him drag against me with each shift of his hips. His hand was warm where it drifted between us to hike my camise to my waist with little ceremony. With one last shaking breath, my eyes fluttered shut, even the sight of the swaying rope too much to bear.

His fingers stroked gently along my hips, a warm path cut to the apex of my thighs where he resumed the same rough strokes. The tightening returned, sharp and sweet between my legs, and I found them parting against my will to splay about him, Eivor sinking further into the cradle between my thighs.

“Open your eyes, ástin mín,” he murmured against the skin of my jaw. “I want to see you.” He was above me, eyes meeting mine as they fluttered open, clear blue so open, so caring it tore a sob from my throat.

_Elskan mín_. I whispered the endearment upon his lips, and it became a prayer as my hips rocked against his hand. He was my rock, my land, and I was no longer adrift as I clung to him, fingers clutching desperately at his shoulders, as if to let go would me I would be lost.

Randvi had been right, it was only just he and I, only the weight of his body atop mine, only the rocking of his fingers against me, within me. I was winding tighter, the strange feeling coiling in my belly, sharp, new.

And then his fingers were gone drawing a high pitched whine from my lips. “Shh, ástin mín. I have you,” he murmured, hands shifting to part my thighs wider. “And I am sorry for this.”

The pain was sharp as he thrust forward, my maidenhead torn free, and I cried out, a wail that had my eyes screwed shut and my hands pushing weakly at his shoulders for reprieve. I didn’t want this, not like this. Not with a room of people watching as I lay prone beneath my husband, tears leaking from my eyes as he rut against me.

It was not over as quickly as Randvi had promised, though I prayed it would be so that I would escape the dull ache between my thighs. Instead, one slow thrust turned to ten, and then Eivor was gripping my hips with a grunt to tilt them higher, my legs wider, his pace quickening, and slowly, I found the pain ebbing way to the dull tightening in my belly.

“Let go,” he murmured, lips finding my own, his fingers back between my thighs. “I have you, _ástin mín._ ” Eivor whispered it again, and again, each time punctuated with a gentle kiss upon my lips. And each time I followed, chasing his lips with my own as my hips began to move against his, with his. I was a bow, pulled taught, an arrow ready to be fired. I was loosed, punched from the precipice, a cry wrenching harshly from my throat to be swallowed by my husband’s lips as his hips stuttered against my own.

And just as I began to come back to myself, Eivor growled, a feral sound against my shoulder as he thrust one last time, and a warmth flooded through my belly. I dimly registered the gothi reciting a final blessing and the murmurs of congratulations as the onlookers shuffled out. I heard neither, entranced with the man above me who did not speak, but instead pressed soft kisses to my brow.

Much later, as we lay bare beneath the furs, our clothing long forgotten, Eivor spoke of the mysterious strangers, Basim and his acolyte Hytham, both from a far away land. His hand carded lazily through my unbound hair as he regaled the story. They had come with Sigurd to learn of Fornburg and its people, though Eivor himself doubted their intentions were true. 

“I find myself drifting to Valka’s words, and I wonder if Sigurd understands what he is doing.”

“Valka?” I pillowed my chin on his chest, the coarse hair tickling my chin as my fingers traced over the blue black ink that marked his flesh. “You went to see the Seer?” Eivor grunted in agreement, the sound vibrating against my jaw. “I did not know you put stock in such things.

He nipped at my nose with a sharp smile and a soft growl, ever the wolf. “My father’s axe, it granted me a vision. And Valka helped me to understand,” he answered, blue eyes meeting mine, the intensity there stilling my squirming. “I saw Odin and he spoke to me.” His voice was distant as he recounted the dream. Eivor spoke of his vision, of Sigurd and Fenrir and Valka’s words that brought him no comfort.

“You would never betray your brother,” I soothed, brushing his sweat slicked, dark hair from his forehead. “And her words are just words.” I pressed a kiss to his chest. “If you recall, she told Svend he would gain riches by Yule, and he has instead lost much of his silver gambling.”

“You shall betray three, your brother, your love, and yourself,” Eivor recited his gaze distance.

“Well now we know her words were false, for you would never betray me, Eivor Wolfsmal,” I murmured, smoothing the worry from his brow with sweet kisses.


	4. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> My hands joined his, the same slickness running between my fingers. When he did not answer, I pressed him again, my fingers moving to cup his cheeks, the slickness dark stains upon his skin. “Elskan mín?” Blood. The slickness drying upon my jaw and fingers was the blood of the men he had killed.

I awoke cold, to a strange, dark room lit only by the soft glow of the dying fire and an empty bed. There was no sound floating in, meaning the feast must have ended at last, or all in attendance had slumped into drunken sleep as my husband had not long after we were left alone.

“Eivor?” I called his name softly, and as if summoned by words, he appeared out the shadows, dressed again in his finery and furs. His dark hair remained unbound and tangled, and it struck me as strange that he would redress and such an hour.

“Ástin mín.” His fingers, slick and cool, cupped my jaw gently. And as they met mine, his blue eyes appeared wild, searching. “I am here.”

“What has happened?” My hands joined his, the same slickness running between my fingers. When he did not answer, I pressed him again, my fingers moving to cup his cheeks, the slickness dark stains upon his skin. “Elskan mín?”

“Kjotve,” he whispered, pressing his forehead to my own, his tension bleeding quickly from him in a long sigh. “He sent men to scout ahead. I…” Eivor hesitated, eyes drifting cautiously to the window. “I awoke to the sound of one outside.”

Blood. The slickness drying upon my jaw and fingers was the blood of the men he had killed. “In Fornburg?”

“Scouts. They were camped just beyond the walls.” His fingers tightened against my jaw, eyes still searching mine for something, and I belatedly realized he was inspecting my skin for injuries. “You are unharmed, ástin mín?”

“I am well.” I parted from him with a sigh, fingers lingering a moment longer upon his cheek to wipe away the drying blood. “Are you?”

Eivor answered with a forced grin before he pressed my camise into my hands. “Nothing I could not handle. Now you must dress, your uncle has summoned us to the longhouse”

“Does Sigurd mean to attack Kjotve, so soon,” I asked, quickly lacing the front of my camise with unsteady fingers. “My uncle would never allow such a thing.” Eivor pressed a dress into my hands with a deep sigh.

“Then we shall go without his permission, wife.” His tone had my fingers halting at the fastenings of my dress. Red and high collared to cover the blood drying on my neck.

“You do not mean that,” I stammered. “His men would never follow without his blessing. Unless Sigurd and you mean…” My voice trailed off when Eivor did not answer, his hands stilling on the buckles of his armor.“Eivor, you cannot. To break your oath… My uncle would never forgive you if do this.”

“Then I shall pay that price. For I have waited too long, wife,to allow Styrbjorn’s hesitance to get in my way.”The man before me was not my husband who moments ago had cupped my jaw so tenderly, instead in his place stood a warrior consumed by his rage. The sight had me retreating, fingers clenching around the linen wrap I held in my hands.

“I would not see you so blinded by revenge, elskan mín. And I would not like to find myself a widow so soon.” My hands took his, wrap forgotten, drawing them from his armor to press gentle kisses to the cracked and bruised knuckles.

“He must pay for what he has done, ástin mín. In sleep, I can still see my father relinquishing his axe, hear the screams of my mother, feel each sharp pain of the wolf tearing at the skin of my skull.” His anger bled away to sadness as quickly as it had come, and Eivor slumped forward, his forehead resting upon my shoulder. “I must do this, ástin mín.”

“If you feel that killing Kjotve will bring you peace, then you must do so,” I agreed with one last press of my lips to his fingers. “You shall need a favor to carry into battle, my brave warrior,” I soothed, fingers carding along the gnarled scar that ran along his skull.

“A lock of your hair, wife?” His hand pulled playfully at my loose hair and I wrinkled my nose at the thought.

“You should know, husband, I am far too fond of my hair to maim it so,” I answered, tightening the last of the buckles at his waist.

“An embroidered piece of cloth with a drop of your blood to remember my sweet wife by as I prepare for a battle worthy of Valhalla.” His fingers pulled at the hastily sewn embroidery that traced in golden rivers along my collar. “Is that supposed to be a wolf? A horse? Will that be what warms my flesh on cold nights?”

I swatted his hand away with a groan. “A fox, you troll.” I drew my wrap from where I had discarded it, fingers skirting along the blue flowers embroidered around the edges. “Here, elskan mín.” I tucked fabric into his belt, the red draping stark against his dark armor. “A favor to remember me during your travels.”

Eivor pressed the linen to his nose, inhaling deeply with a soft groan. “Fetch my gauntlet, wife. You wouldn’t want to disappoint your uncle.”

I complied, turning the strange golden thing in my hand as I approached. “And what is this, husband? I have never seen craftsmanship such as this before?”

“A wedding gift from your cousin,” Eivor answered taking the strange golden gauntlet from my hand. “Hold out your hand, ástin mín.” The gauntlet was heavy and ungainly upon my arm, clearly meant for a man larger than myself. “Here,” Eivor murmured, fingers closing over my wrist.

With a sharp twist, the gauntlet shuddered once as a blade sprung forth with a soft _schwick._ I stumbled back, the blade retracting back as I gaped at my husband with wide eyes and a wider grin. He answered my surprise with a knowing smile. I flicked my wrist again, and again the blade appeared.

“Perhaps we shall ask Sigurd to gift you one as well, ástin mín.” He pulled the gauntlet gently from my wrist and fixed it to his own. I straightened my dress one last time, surprised to find his gaze lingering upon me. “I will not lie, ástin mín, the sight has stirred desire deep in my belly.” He settled my heavy cloak about my shoulders. “If we had more time, but we must go. Your uncle is waiting.”

“Where do you mean to strike,” I asked, fixing his own cloak about his shoulders with a soft kiss to his bearded jaw.

“There is a settlement to the west where he holds his supplies. Sigurd means to attack there.” Eivor softly took my hand in his own, thumb rubbing over my wedding band, a wolf head made of carved iron. And I did the same, thumb brushing over his own band. “We must hurry, ástin mín.”

The longhouse was silent when we arrived and unnervingly empty. Little of the feast remained save a few discarded ale horns and the lingering scent of mead. The news of the scouts must have traveled fast, and any bound warrior was preparing their longships. Eivor had been right, the men would follow Sigurd without question. A broken oath would not bode well for their endeavor, and on the night of my wedding, it all felt like a bad portent.

Eivor led us to where my uncle was waiting, he and Sigurd both hunched over the table deep in an argument that must have raged for quite some time.

“I have toiled too hard for peace, you fool boy,” Styrbjorn hissed, face reddened, his hands gripping the edge of the table hard enough the wood groaned under the assault. “And you wish to throw it away under such a small slight.”

“And you would allow our enemies into our borders with your impotence!” Sigurd, his cheeks just as red, knocked his flagon of ale from the table with a quick swipe of his arm. “We must appear strong in the face of such an attack! If I were king…”

“You are not king, boy!” Styrbjorn silenced his son with a feral growl. “Eivor has dealt with the scouts, that is the end of the matter.”

“Eivor, brother, come, tell my father for your thirst to see Kjotve dead!”

“Ástin mín.” My husband left me with a gentle press of his lips to my forehead, silent as he joined the pair in their argument.

“Sigrid?” Randvi appeared from her bedroom, furs hastily wrapped over her thin camise. When she reached me, her hands closed over mine, her body soft and warm when she pulled me into an embrace. “Come, let us leave them to argue.”

I was brought to the kitchen and a cup of warm mead pressed into my hands. Randvi settled beside me, gingerly sipping at her own flagon. “I am glad to see you well,” I whispered, fingers light on her cheek, my smile soft. “Did they attack the longhouse, sister?”

“No, thank the gods. All inside would have been too drunk to defend themselves.” Randvi answered my frown with a reassuring smile. “Your husband heard them outside and dispatched the camp before Sigurd had enough time to dress. Did you not hear them?”

“No,” I sheepishly admitted, eyes cast down to the golden liquid in my cup, the tips of my ears starting to burn pink, “I slept like a babe.”

“Not a babe,” she answered with her own gentle smile, “for you are a woman now.”

“A woman who is soon to be a widow from her husband’s ambition,” I murmured, casting a glance towards the sounds of agreement spilling into the kitchen around us. We sat in silence, simply listening, Sigurd’s harsh tone flanked by Styrbjorn’s loud booming voice, only briefly interrupted by Eivor’s soft interjections.

“I felt the same when Sigurd left.” Her head was heavy against my shoulder. “Every day I stood at the docks waiting for him to return because that was what was expected of me. I had even chosen my mourning dress when no word came for moons.” I tangled my fingers with her. “Such is the burden of a wife. You shall wait patiently for Eivor to sail home, pray to the gods for his safe return. And when he does, you will welcome him home with a bright smile and a warm bed.”

“If my husband does return,” I admitted with a sigh. “I fear that he has set himself on Odin’s path, and shall lose more than his eye in his pursuit.”

As if conjured by our words, Sigurd tore through the hall, a string of curses as fiery as his hair pouring from his lips. Eivor followed, his expression pained, his glance brief in my direction before hurrying after my cousin.

“Now we must fulfill our duties as wives,” Randvi drew me to my feet, “and see our husbands off with a warm smile and a kiss.” I moved to follow, stopped by the sound of a frustrated sigh and a loud crash cutting through our path.

“Go,” I whispered, answering her protest with a soft smile and a gentle squeeze of her hands, “I must see to my uncle. Wish my husband well.”

I found a thrall cleaning the remains of a splintered flagon and my uncle still braced against the table. “Sigrid? What are you doing here?” He sighed, fixing me with a pained glance, “have you not seen your husband off to war?”

“Are you well uncle?” I led him to his chair, and he sunk down with a groan. “Do not worry for Sigurd. He is far too stubborn for the valkyries to take him.” I settled on my knees beside him, his hand warm in my own. It felt very much as though I was a child again, listening intently as my uncle told tales of his battle glory.

“Sweet Sigrid, my Eir. I pray to Odin that you are right.” His hand patted my hair with a forced smile. “And that your husband’s level head may prevail over my son’s temper.”

* * *

Randvi had been right. I spent much of my mornings walking the docks, eyes scanning the horizon in hopes to spy a glimpse of sails against the clouds. When they did not come, I would then ride to the hills in hopes to again see sails upon the horizon. And once I was finally satisfied, I would tend to my weaving, fidgeting between Randvi and Hlif til it was time to sleep. Til again, I would wake in the morning to walk the docks.

I had heard of the raiding parties but the once, when I had walked past my uncle conversing with a messenger, a man I recognized from Sigurd’s raiding party. When I passed on my way to the docks, I caught but the briefest piece of their words. _Kjotve is dead. Your son makes for Alrekstad._

That had been the only news I heard. No mention of my husband or if he lived or had entered Valhalla. No word of if he had joined Sigurd in Alrekstad. Or if I would find him waiting at the dock, Sýnin calling from above.

Instead, nothing greeted me at the docks, though each call of a raven had my heart clenching and my head turning back toward the horizon. Every day I walked, I rode, I weaved, and I slept in an empty bed. When a month turned to two, and two to three, Randvi insisted I spend the day hunting with her in the surrounding woods instead of my routine pacing.

“It is good to see you away from the docks, sister,” Randvi called from where she bent over the carcass of a deer. “I was beginning to think you would become a fish.”

“Perhaps I shall,” I mused, shouldering my bow, “or a bird. Then I shall fly to where Eivor is no doubt impaled upon his axe or his ambition.”

Randvi snorted. “Do you trust your husband so little?”

“No,” I answered, eyes cast towards where I imagined the horizon hung beyond the trees. “I have found as of late that I do not trust yours to not to lead him to ruin.

“Perhaps he has perished from a broken heart, sister.” I groaned at her words. It had been a constant source of teasing, the forlorn expression on Eivor’s face when I did not appear to send him off. “Sigrid, the maiden who has chosen duty over love. Sagas shall be written about your unwavering honor.”

I shoved dirt at her with a laugh, the two of us falling into the pillowy soft grass in a fit of giggles. “I am a horrible wife,” I breathed between choking laughter, “may Frigg strike me down in shame.”

“That she may,” Randvi answered, her hands heavy on my waist as she forced me onto my back in the grass with a squeal, her fingers tickling at my ribs beneath my cloak. “Do not worry, sister, I shall protect you from her wrath!”

“Perhaps we are not meant to have husbands,” I mused, smiling up at Randvi. “We shall have to steal a longship and live out our destiny at sea as famed shield maidens.”

“Our hair unbound, our swords sharp, our wit even sharper. We shall sail right into legend, but first, we must bring our prize back to Fornburg. Then we shall plan our escape.” I was pulled to my feet with a groan, and we set off back down the hill. It was the first time in moons that my mind had not drifted to the cool emptiness of my bed and the loneliness I felt wrapped in the furs when all I had to keep me company was the starlight that peaked through the window. 

The moment would have been perfect, save for the chill that crept through the heavy wool of cloak and the doe hefted onto Randvi’s shoulders that dripped blood in a grim path through the grass. “I am beginning to understand sister, how you endured for so long.” I brushed my tangled curls from my cheeks with a sigh. “I have found myself at the docks less and less. My thoughts upon my husband even less so.” And when the horizon crested over the hilltop, I did not find my eyes drifting to the sea.

“Good,” Randvi answered with a smile, hefting the doe on to the shoulder of a thrall as we entered the longhouse. “You will find that it grows easier the more time passes.”

My uncle was waiting, a messenger conversing with him near the fire. From the way his shoulders slumped in relief, it must have been good news. “Perhaps we shall finally have some news”

“Ah, there you are,” Styrbjorn motioned for us to join him, “We have been summoned to Alrekstad to the court of King Harald. You both will travel with me.”

“Alrekstad, uncle,” I asked once the messenger had departed.

“King Harald was responsible for aiding in Sigurd’s victory at Forli. He has asked us to feast with him in celebration. And to take parting in the Althing that will follow.” Though he spoke of good news, his expression remained strained, his features pinched. “We leave at first light.”

“We shall have to pack.” Randvi pulled on my arm. I answered her with a soft squeeze of her hand and a gentle smile.

“I shall join you soon, sister.” When she departed I turned to my uncle, to the way his shoulders slumped with a heavy sigh.

“I am tired, Sigrid,” he admitted, hand heavy upon his brow.

“You worry that this victory will embolden Sigurd, uncle.” I helped him to his chair, and when he settled against the cushion, I let out a heavy breath. “That he may plunge us into war.”

“I used to be a warrior, little one. A feared raider who would leap at the chance to go to war, but now I find that I have no appetite for it.” Styrbjorn, for all his height and legend, seemed so small, so frail. “I am to join Harald in the Althing. He means to offer a chance for an alliance that would finally bring peace to our land.”

“That is wonderful news, uncle.” I took his hand in mine with a gentle smile. “You may once again rest easy in Fornburg.”

Styrbjorn sighed, “I must submit to his will. That is his terms.” I drew back, hands pressing to my chest as if his touch burned my flesh.

“You mean not to be king?”

“I do what is best for my people, little one.” At his admission, his shoulders slumped forward, his breath released in a long rush. “I worry of Sigurd.”

“He will not accept it as such,” I answered, pacing before him. “Sigurd believes himself a king by his birthright. Remove that, and I fear you shall fracture the bonds of father and son beyond repair.”

“Sigurd has no head to be king,” Styrbjorn admitted, though it appeared to cause him great pain to do so. “I have known this for quite some time. He is no leader, but I fear his temper shall wound me far worse than any sword may.” He fixed me with a look my mind belatedly realized was naked pity. “Prepare yourself for the reckoning that will follow, little one. Your husband will remain loyal to my son without question.”

“I know,” I answered softly, stroking over the crest of the iron wolf upon my finger. It had been a habit adopted in my loneliness, a way of reminding myself that Eivor would one day return. “He would follow his brother to the gates of Valhalla if he but asked.”

“This will affect us all, little one. Do not blame your husband for what he chooses to do.” His hand closed over mine. “And I ask that you do not blame me for what is to come.”

“Of course, uncle.” I offered a small smile of comfort in hope to soothe his creased brow. “I pray the gods will give us strength to see this through.”

“Do not worry yourself, Sigrid.” Though his smile was strained, he appeared to finally relax. “You must be eager to see your husband.”

“Eager is not how I would place my feelings,” I admitted, fingers again tracing my ring. “It is more hope and perhaps hesitance. We had only been married a night before he left to follow Sigurd. What if he is not the man who stood in this very spot moons ago. I worry that he had been consumed by his quest for so long, that not much of the man will remain now that Kjotve is dead.”

“I felt the same when I became king, little one.” His words did little to comfort my aching chest. “You will find that he is made of stronger stuff. As I did.” His hand stroked over mine one last time before he released me with a gentle smile. “Now go pack, Sigrid. I promise that I am well enough to be left alone.”

When I was finally alone in the confines of my small house, I released the sound that had bubbled in my throat. A sob or a laugh I did not know which.

In the morning, when I boarded the longship, certain that instead of sails on the horizon, hung my future glinting in the rising sun. I cast one last glance to Fornburg, and instead of comfort, it felt very much like a final parting.


	5. Chapter Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I had been so certain Eivor would greet me at the gate, sweep me into his strong arms, and kiss me till I could no longer breathe. He would whisper endearments between kisses, and we would spend the rest of the afternoon in a joyous reunion. It had played out so many times in my dreams I had begun to believe it would be true. Freya was sending me a sign that my love was pure, I had told myself each time I awoke to the lingering feeling of his lips on my own. But now, my heart lingered upon Randvi’s words with bitter disappointment.

I had never seen a city as large as Alrekstad in all of my days, though I had never truly traveled beyond Fornburg since I was a child. With its sprawling houses and towering walls, it felt more like a fortress than any city I had seen. As we rode through the streets, my fingers gripped tight to the reins of my mount to still my excited trembling. I found myself overwhelmed by the sights and sounds in the streets around me.

At the head of our procession rode my uncle, very much the conquering king from his stories. His mood had cheered during our journey, and ahead of me, he smiled and waved to the soldiers we passed. Some I recognized from Fornburg, men who sailed with my cousin, though I saw no flash of crystal blue eyes and crooked smile amongst them.

In the air, the heavy scent of mead and spices mixed with the sharp scent of soldiers, sweat and blood. In the street crossed people dressed in all manner of fabrics in colors that reminded me of a sea of wildflowers, soldiers in clinking chain mail, maidens and thralls clothed in dresses finer than any I had ever seen.

A little girl ran in ahead of my horse, giggling as a pair of boys chased after her, their fingers tugging at her green apron. She paused long enough to press a winter bloom into my gloved hand. When I thanked her, she answered with a toothy grin before darting off. I allowed my gaze to linger upon the children, imagining my own one day streaking through the crowd in a similar manner.

“You seem distant, sister.” Randvi startled me from my staring, her smile strained and clearly forced when she pulled her own horse beside mine. “Are you not eager to see your husband?”

Her question rung hollow, the happiness there a front for my sake. It had been as such since we set off for Alrekstad, as though my uncle’s poor mood had seeped from him and into her. “I am,” I answered, again scanning the crowd with an eager gaze before sinking back into my saddle. “I had hoped that Eivor would be waiting at the gates to greet us.”

“You’ll find, that I did not hold the same hope.” Randvi’s face contorted with a pinched expression she had adopted over the past week. She was unhappy, that much was clear, and I began to realize that she craved her freedom over anything. Hers would not be a happy reunion. There would be embraces and kisses, and perhaps tears, though it would all be an act. Part of the mask she wore. It was how she was expected to act as a wife, so she would do so. “Sigurd will be with the king, and Eivor will be at his side, planning their next move no doubt. For men like them, their ambition will always come first, sister.”

I accepted another flower from a passing child, my joyful mood soured by her words.

By the time we reached the longhouse, I had collected a small handful of white blossoms and what had once been overwhelming joy spoiled to nervous hesitation. When my feet touched the ground and my horse led away, I was sure I would vomit from the ache in my heart, my belly clenching hard enough it stole the air from my lungs.

“Sigrid?” My uncle and Randvi stared expectantly back towards me, and I realized I was frozen to the spot. “We must not keep King Harald waiting.”

I dutifully placed my hand on his arm and followed, willing my heartbeat to slow. I wondered if Styrbjorn could feel my sweat slicked palms through his armor, the loud beating of my heart, and the way my steps faltered as we approached the raised dais.

“Breath, little one,” he whispered soft enough that only I could hear. The breath I drew in response was shallow and shaky. In my clenched fingers, the flower stems bent and crumbled.

On the dais, sat King Harald, fair haired, and much like the kings from the stories of my childhood. Beside him to his right stood Sigurd, proud and tall in newly polished armor and furs, his red hair loose and shining about his shoulders.

“King Harald,” Styrbjorn announced, his arms swept wide in greeting. Beside him, Randvi and I dropped into a bow, not failing to catch Sigurd’s wink. “I am grateful for your invitation. I have long since wanted to see Alrekstad.”

“Welcome, Styrbjorn King,” Harald rose to greet him, and when I straightened, the two had clapped each other’s back in fond greeting.

“May I present, Randvi, my son’s wife.” Randvi stepped forward and bowed with a demure smile. “And my ward, Sigrid.” I followed suit, rising to find Sigurd had joined us.

“Hello wife, cousin,” Sigurd replied, moving to embrace Randvi. For a moment her movements were wooden, awkward before they melted away to a warm embrace. “It is good to see you again.”

“And you,” I answered, eyes darting about the longhouse. “Are you alone? Is your brother not with you?”

“Am I not enough for you, cos?” Sigurd’s teasing grin lightened the ache in my chest as he pulled me into a warm hug. “Last I saw, your husband and Basim were headed towards the market. Up to some mischief no doubt,” he whispered, blue eyes alight with a teasing grin.

When I cast a hopeful glance towards my uncle he answered with a dismissive wave. “King Harald and I have much to discuss. I shall see you at the feast.”

I parted from Sigurd and Randvi with a hastily made promise to find them later at the feast before I set off towards the marketplace.

Navigating the crowd came easily enough, my small stature aiding in my journey. As was before, I was surrounded by all sorts of sights and smells, and every time I spied dark hair, my head craned and my heart ached. And each time I stared into the face of a stranger.

My first trip round the marketplace yielded no findings save the cup of spiced mead a vendor had forced upon me to stave away the chill. Soon the mead was finished, as my patience, and I ducked into the alehouse to gather myself and to wipe at the tears that pricked in the corners of my eyes.

The cold, I reasoned, settling my red cloak back around my shoulders, the cold was what brung tears to my eyes. I would have to return to the longhouse alone and pray that there was a room in which I could hide until we returned to Fornburg.

I had been so certain Eivor would greet me at the gate, sweep me into his strong arms, and kiss me till I could no longer breathe. He would whisper endearments between kisses, and we would spend the rest of the afternoon in a joyous reunion. It had played out so many times in my dreams I had begun to believe it would be true. Freya was sending me a sign that my love was pure, I had told myself each time I awoke to the lingering feeling of his lips on my own. But now, my heart lingered upon Randvi’s words with bitter disappointment.

Perhaps he hadn’t known I would come. Perhaps that is why he did not greet me. Or perhaps Randvi was right, his ambition had come first.

My flowers tossed aside with a heavy sigh, I made my way back towards the longhouse, defeat dragging my steps. A tug at my braid had me brushing the child away with a heavy sigh. I had been plagued by well wishing children most of my journey and found myself tiring of the company. When they persisted, I brushed again, sharply drawing my hand back in pain at the sharp pinch to my palm. A sharp pinch that was followed by the squawking of a raven in my ear.

“Sýnin!” I cried, the raven chirping in annoyance when I pulled her from my shoulder and to my chest. “I have missed you, pretty bird!” Sýnin squawked again, wriggling free to perch on a roof out of reach. “Where is your master?”

“Sigrid?” The sound of my name, husky, raw, and ruined, tore a sob from my throat so harsh it made my chest ache and stole the breath from my lungs. There he stood, Eivor Wolfsmal, elskan mín, my husband, his hands frozen halfway to his hood. “What are you…”

He did not have a chance to answer, for I threw my arms about his neck to hold him close. I had but a moment to savor his scent before the world tilted and I was in flight. I had misjudged the move, for my weight tipped him, and we fell ungracefully into a snowbank with a thud.

Eivor first, his back hitting the snow with an audible groan, and I astride him, my breath knocked free from my body with a loud whoosh. “Eivor,” I gasped, fingers pulling at his dark hair to bring his lips to my own, “o, elskan mín, I have missed you.”

He answered with his own deeper kiss, body curling up to meet my own, fingers threaded in my own hair to hold me to him. The press of him against me was rapidly warming my body despite the cool snow dampening my cloak.

“Ástin mín,” his voice was hoarse between kisses, his fingers rough where they pulled at my braid. “People are beginning to stare, my sweet wife” Eivor murmured, hands cupping my jaw to press another kiss to my lips.

“You jest?” He answered with a sharp grin, and I turned to find a crowd of onlookers watching us with interest. With an un-ladylike squeak of protest, I buried my face in the thick fur of his collar, my cheeks flushed as red as my cloak. “Why must you always do this to me,” I groaned, face pressed further from view. Eivor answered with a deep chuckle, his hand shifting to splay between my shoulders.

“I have told you, I am a weak man. Come, I have a place where we may talk privately,” Eivor murmured into my hair with one last kiss. Reluctantly, I stood, and he with me.

Instead of the longhouse, he led us down a narrow path to a small house that sat just outside the ring of Alrekstad. “King Harald was kind enough to grant Sigurd and I lodging for the past moons.” Eivor held the door and allowed me to enter.

The home was sparse, a bed, a fireplace, and a chest for weapons, but not much else. I inspected each with quiet interest as Eivor carefully removed each piece of his armor and stored it in the chest. The bed seemed sturdy, the furs thick and plush beneath my hands when I settled atop them.

There were no decorations, no rugs, no clay pots filled with fresh flowers. The only sign of its occupant was a collection of baubles lining the window, a raven feather, rusted bead, dried wildflowers, and what looked like a small carved horse. “Sýnin has been busy,” I mused, fingers tracing along the spine of the feather.

“I think she grows tired of this place,” Eivor admitted, sitting beside me now clad only in a dark linen shirt and his trousers, his dark hair unbound about his shoulders. “As have I.”

“You were away for so long, elskan mín. I was beginning to wonder if I had dreamt you.” My hand threaded with his, the calloused warmth a calming feeling against my own skin. “And if you would ever return to me.”

“I am sorry, ástin mín, but the choice to stay was beyond my power. Sigurd promised his longboats to clear out the last of Kjotve’s men. A task that has proved far more complex than what was agreed upon.” His beard tickled my knuckles as he pressed a kiss to my fingers. “If I had known you were coming to Alrekstad I would have greeted you at the gates.”

“Known? My uncle sent word to…O! I am going to throw that fífl into the sea next we meet!”

“The mouth on you,” he mused, punctuating his words with a kiss to my lips. And when I wrinkled my nose in response, Eivor chuckled, filling the empty house with the warm sound of laughter. “And who are you going to throw into the sea?”

“My wretch of a cousin,” I groaned, burying my face in his shoulder. “I had thought…” My cheeks grew hot at the foolish thought, and I pressed my face further into his shirt.

“You had thought I did not care enough to meet you.” Eivor’s fingers were gentle upon my cheek. “Each night, I would pray to the gods that I may sleep beside my wife again. Each night I dreamt of eyes the color of fall leaves and your warm thighs, and when I awoke in the morning I was left wanting. Had I known you were to arrive today, I would have ridden to meet you the moment you left Fornburg.”

“My soft warrior,” I cooed, words muffled by the linen of his shirt. “Would you truly have ridden out to meet us?” I rest my chin upon his shoulder, bottom lip sucked between my teeth.

“I would,” Eivor answered, his lips pressing to my forehead. “Met you on the road. There is an old farmstead not far where the young people in Alrekstad sneak away to. The moment I would have laid eyes on you,” he pressed a kiss to both my cheeks, “you would be hefted over my shoulder.”

“And then?”

“And then, sweet wife, we would not rise from that farmhouse for nigh a week,” he murmured, pressing my body back against the furs with insistent kisses.

* * *

I tumbled onto the bench in a chorus of giggles, Eivor awkwardly landing beside me, his ale sloshing from its flagon and onto his lap. When he left loose a mighty string of curses in response, tears of mirth flowed down my cheeks and I gasped for breath around my laugher.

“I am glad that you are enjoying yourself at my expense, wife,” Eivor grumbled with a frown, though for a moment, the corners of his lips quirked into a small smile.

It was true, I had been enjoying myself. And though my feet ached from dancing and my sides from laughter, I felt lighter than I had in so many moons. Though, perhaps it was the copious amount of ale that flowed through my veins. “Very much so, husband.”

“A heavy price to see you smile, ástin mín. One I would gladly pay.” His words, the seriousness of them, sent me into another fit of giggles and I clutched my side as I gasped again for breath around my laughter.

“Ugh.” Sigurd’s disgruntled sigh came from the other side of the table, his pinched expression, visible just over his flagon of ale, stirring another fit of laughter in my belly. “What have you done, cos? My most feared vikingr has become as soft as a skald!”

“He is a man in love,” Randvi added, her smile curled around her own flagon. “It is refreshing to see two people so happy.” She brushed her unbound hair from her shoulder with a deep sigh, and I knew without saying that she was speaking of her own marriage.

“Come brother,” Sigurd stood, motioning Eivor to follow, “I would have a word with our host.”

“It is good to see you so happy, sister,” Randvi said, sliding into the now empty seat beside me. “I have missed the glow he brings to your cheeks.” She brushed my own dark curls from my face with a gentle smile.

“And what of you now that Sigurd has returned? I know you prefer your freedom to your marriage.” I cast a glance towards the front of the longhouse where Sigurd and Eivor stood whispering. Before them, King Harald addressed the feast, speaking of lasting peace and unity.“What you think they are plotting?”

“Knowing Sigurd,” Randvi rested her cheek upon the soft fabric of my blue dress, “a plan to further their chances at Valhalla.”

“Too many soldiers for them to be plotting so intently go overthrow the king.”

King Harald had just finished his speech when a tall, scarred man stepped forward to pledge an oath. He had gotten halfway to the dais when he was struck down, my husband’s fist colliding with his jaw, Eivor’s growl of rage echoing through the longhouse. Before he could strike again, Sigurd restrained him, and though I could not hear them, I knew he spoke words of warning in my husband’s ear.

“Who is that man,” I asked.Randvi stopped me from rising with a hand tight on my forearm.

“Gorm Kjotvesson. I had thought the snake would have been killed in the battle, but he appears he has slithered free.” She hissed in warning when I moved to rise again. “It is not your place, Sigrid.”

“He means to pledge fealty to the king?” Eivor was still struggling against Sigurd, his blue eyes flashing wild, his fingers reaching for his father’s axe on his belt. “Would Harald wish for such a man in his ranks?”

“Even with his many of his men dead, he would still bring with him a sizable army to offer,” she admitted, eyes fixed, as most of those around us, on King Harald when he moved to speak.

“Eivor Wolf-kissed and his coward of a cousin poisoned my father! He had denied him an honorable death!” Gorm silenced the king with his sharp words, one good eye sweeping triumphantly over the feast. “How can you keep company, lord, with such dishonorable men?”

“Bacraut!” Eivor snarled the word, wrenching himself free from Sigurd. He was ever the wolf at that moment, teeth snapping in challenge. “I shall remove your ugly head from your shoulders, you lying snake!” To his credit, Gorm Kjotvesson stepped forward to meet his challenge.

“Enough! I have heard your claims, Kjotvesson,” Harlad stepped forward, joined by an older warrior, “and they are false. My uncle saw your father die.”

“But, lord…”

“Eivor Wolf-kissed,” Harald motioned my husband forward, “because this man slandered your clan, I would ask you what should be done with him?”

“I would see his head upon a pike and his body shat out by ravens, lord,” Eivor hissed, hands flying to his axe as though he meant to carry out the sentence himself.

“Unfortunately, a quick death would be far too merciful for such a draugur. Gorm Kjotvesson, you are no longer welcome in these lands. You have until the next sunrise to leave it.” And with that, Gorm Kjotvesson was gone.

“Lord, may I speak?” My uncle had emerged from the crowd to stand before the king. “My clan has ruled over our land since the time of Odin, and we have had peace paid for by the blood of my people.”

“You rule a great kingdom, Styrbjorn King,” Harald answered when my uncle trailed off with a pained expression. “Continue my friend.”

“I grow tired of war. Of bloodshed and death. If King Harald offers lasting peace, then I willingly bend the knee.” And Styrbjorn did, sinking to his knees before the king, his head bowed, his shoulders slumped forward in defeat.

“What?!” Sigurd lunged forward to haul his father to his feet. “What have you done, you drink addled cow?!”

“I have secured peace so that you and your children may live to see it, boy.” Styrbjorn’s voice was soft, and though under a spell, he aged before my eyes to the tired, old man he had always been.

“You give away a title that is mine by birthright! You shall die a thrall!” Sigurd shoved his father to the ground. “And you shall be alone!”

When my uncle did not rise, I rushed forward to help him to his feet. “He does not mean his words, uncle,” I murmured, casting a glare back at Sigurd, who answered with a sharp narrowing of his gaze.

“You knew, cousin?” His laugh was cold, cruel. “You would rather consult the words of a child than your own son,” he spat. “I hope that for your sake, father, that you do not live long enough to see Fornburg in ashes.”

Sigurd tore from the hall, snarling at all in his way. I cast a pleading glance toward Eivor, who would not meet my gaze, Instead, my husband followed his brother without so much as a word.

“I am sorry for my son, he speaks with his temper,” Styrbjorn admitted with a heavy sigh.

“I welcome your fealty, Styrbjorn,” Harald embraced him warmly. “And I do not fault your son. I was young once.”

“You are most gracious, lord,” I answered for my uncle with a forced smile. “We welcome the chance for peace.”

“Ah, so this is your wise advisor, my friend?” I nodded with a small smile, ears heating under the attention. “I wish my own advisors were all as fair as she. Perhaps, lady, we may make use of your talents again soon.”

“I would like that lord,” I answered with a bow. Perhaps that would be enough to soothe Sigurd’s anger. And if our relationship with Harald remained strong, then I may be able to secure a position that would repair his bruised honor.

“Go, Sigrid, “Styrbjorn ordered, his hand soft on my own. “Young people should not be burdened by such things on a day of feasting such as this.”

I murmured my excuses to Randvi, lying that the ale had gone to my head and I needed sleep. I made for the small house tucked at the outskirts, relief flooding my veins when I found it empty. The thought of laying beside Eivor turned my stomach, my mind drifting to the cruelness in his words and expression, the callousness towards my uncle…and myself. It was as if the kind man who had whispered words of love in my ear had been replaced by a creature of rage and of war.

Ambition, my mind reminded me, men like him were ruled by their ambition. Now that my uncle had nothing to offer, he would be cast aside in favor of ambition. Would I suffer the same fate?

As I lay beneath the furs alone, finally succumbing to a fitful sleep, it was not offered peace that swirled around me but the fog of the unknown.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Five chapters in and we are finally getting to the actual game story. I am also super grateful to everyone who has taken the time to read, leave kudos, or write comments on this. You are all so amazing!


	6. Chapter Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Will you join us?" Upon my shoulder, his hand felt like an iron band weighing me down til at last my head slipped beneath the dark water and I was lost. I could feel Eivor’s eyes upon me, the sharpness of his breath, and if I dared to look at him, I knew his handsome features would be marred with disappointment. My answer was soft, so soft I was unsure it had even tumbled from my lips. 
> 
> “Yes, cousin. I will join you.”

A heavy cloud had hung over Fornburg since our return, though not as heavy as the one over my marriage bed. For three moons, I awoke before Eivor, with mumbled excuses that I was needed in longhouse for the day, and a promise that I would return in time for supper.

And even though I promised to return, each night I remained long after the fire had died to embers. Each night, Eivor would trek to the longhouse to carry my sleeping form back to our bed, and I would awake to start again. It had been easier to hide than looking at my husband and to see his ambition looking back.I would look upon him, be it across the hall or at our small table, and hear Randvi’s warning echoing in my mind. I could see the threads looped beneath his skin where Sigurd tugged him towards ruin, instead of the Norns pulling him towards his destiny. Where Sigurd pulled him further from me.

Each day they had spent planning since we had departed Alrekstad, and each day the secrecy worsened. I would often catch Sigurd and Eivor whispering between themselves in the shadows of the longhouse, and each day the crowd about them grew till I could no longer see my husband’s face over the wall of bodies around him. It was not the crowd that gathered or my husband’s presence that unnerved me, it was their silence when I passed, the looks of suspicions that followed my steps. It was as if they believed I alone would be the one to undo all of their work.

It was not long after the rumors started. That Sigurd planned to kill his father and assume the role of king. That Eivor planned to deliver the finishing blow. And with my uncle dead, they would march of King Harald. That in Fornburg, the air hung the heavy stench of war. Those were the worst rumors of all. The ones that followed me through the market, the ones that were whispered as I passed.

So I chose not to go to the market, or look at my husband too closely, and if he chose to act, then I prayed to Freya that I would endure as a good wife.

Rumors, it turned out, had been far simpler than the truth.

Land, Sigurd cried, surrounded by men he called loyal brothers, and promised freedom, lying in wait should we only be bold enough to claim it. As I stood near the edge of his circle of followers, Randvi at my side, my heart ached at the thought of leaving my home.

And that was what he intended to do, claim the land as his rightful kingdom, to reclaim his birthright. He would abandon his father, my uncle, and make his own destiny. All who would willing to follow would be welcome. Though to seek our destiny, it meant to leave Fornburg, our home behind.

Eivor was the first to join, kneeling before Sigurd, his cry of brother ringing through the longhouse and settling in my bones as a creeping chill. And then the quieter murmur that he would follow him to the gates of Valhalla, a perfect echo of my uncle’s words from not long ago. Others followed, their pledges echoing my husbands, and when it was all done, their eyes fixed upon Randvi and I.

It was Randvi who stepped forward first, her mask chipping around her strained smile. “Husband,” she stated, embracing him warmly, “I will follow.”

I could not make the pledge, could not bring myself to say the words that stuck like puffs of wool in my throat. To do so would mean breaking my oath to my uncle, a man who cared for me when I had no one, a man who had been more a father to me than my own.

“Cos?” Sigurd stepped forward, his expression pinched, stormy. “Will you join us?” Upon my shoulder, his hand felt like an iron band, weighing me down til at last my head slipped beneath the dark water and I was lost.

I could feel Eivor’s eyes upon me, the sharpness of his breath, and if I dared to look at him, I knew his handsome features would be marred with disappointment. My answer was soft, so soft I was unsure it had even tumbled from my lips.

“Yes, cousin. I will join you.”

Eivor cornered me outside the longhouse, his hand rough upon my forearm as he drug me into the shadows. There he forced an oath from my lips. I was not to discuss Sigurd’s plans with my uncle. I was to follow without question.

I had asked my husband if he agreed so blindly with Sigurd’s plans if he had been willing to leave Fornburg without its defenses and stores for the winter. No answer had come. When I had pressed Eivor on the matter, he had stated, in a flat tone that had become common as of late, that it was for Sigurd to decide.

England. Sigurd wanted England and the crown that came with it. And he was willing to do anything to claim it and my husband was willing to follow him without question. It was what Sigurd wanted. And if Sigurd wanted the kingdoms of England on a platter of blood, then Eivor would give it to him at any cost necessary.

It was a seductive thought, and even through my hesitance, I found myself warming to the notion. To own land where we would rule as we saw fit. A land where raids and treasure were plentiful. Where our new kingdom would thrive and each man and woman would grow old, fat, and prosperous. Paired with Sigurd’s charm, it was hard not to follow. Men and women followed without question. My husband followed without question, and in the end, I followed my husband.

We had planned to sneak away like thieves in the night, though I soon learned that the gods had no need for our plans.

“England shall be good to us, Sigrid,” Eivor murmured as he settled another cask of mead in the longship. I looked up for a moment from where I traced the inscription carved into the inside of the ship's wooden hull. _Battle with honor and may valkyries carry you to Valhalla._

I hummed in agreement, hand stopping for a moment to pull my furs tighter about my shoulders against the cold wind that whipped down from the fjords. The ship beneath me had been my bride price, my total worth in the sum of wood, nails, and cloth. It was fitting that it would carry me away from my uncle and my home as my husband had carried me away from the protection of my innocence. “To leave our home? I struggle to find the good in it, and I find myself believing those words less and less, husband.”

For a brief moment, hurt flashed through his features, hot and raw like a jagged wound, and my answering flare of triumph left me feeling much the same.

Again a cask of all fell beside me, this time hitting the deck with a resounding crack. “Have I committed some great offense against you, wife, that you feel the need to treat me with such bitterness?” The question was sharp and stinging, as cold as the frigid air that sunk beneath my cloak.

The answer stuck as bits of wool upon my tongue, thick and heavy. Instead, my skin sizzled with annoyance, crackled like Thor’s lightening just beneath the surface until my anger molded into something shaper in my belly. “Do you truly need to ask? Is not the fact that I must sail unbidden from my home for my cousin’s ambition not enough of a reason, husband?”

“Sigrid…” Eivor reached beneath my cloak to tangle his fingers with my own. “I do not wish to fight. The thought of doing so again sours my lips and sickens my belly.” The feel of his hand, so large around my own, tightening sharply drew my gaze to follow his back towards the docks.

My uncle emerged flanked by a pair of warriors upon the docks, the sight of his shame, his disappointment sent a fresh wave of bile rising in my throat and if it were not for Eivor’s hand heavy in my own I would have gone to him to offer comfort. Instead, Sigurd leaped from his own longboat to greet his father with cruel words.

“So it is to be like this?” Styrbjorn’s question was heavy, burdened with grief, loss, and defeat. “My own son steals from his father like a thief sent by Loki in the night? Do you mean to set off without words of parting to the man who raised you from a whelp to a man?”

“Steal?” Sigurd’s eyes flashed in challenge, his arms flung wide to the cargo around him. “All of this came from my raids. How can I steal what is rightfully mine?”

“Sigurd is right,” Eivor added, stepping forward to stand beside his brother, “these supplies are ours, paid for in our sweat and blood.”

“And what of Fornburg? Would you leave our people to starve through winter?”

“Starve for all I care,” Sigurd hissed, “you have made your choice, old man, and now you must live with it.”

“Sigurd, please,” I chastised, stepping forward only a few steps before Eivor’s shape glare halted my movement. “Your father is right, we cannot leave Fornburg without supplies.” When Sigurd remained silent, I continued, daring to approach to stand beside my husband, “Leave half so that they may last through the winter.”

“We take it all.” And that was the end of it. I had but a moment to cast a look of pity towards my uncle before I was pulled back towards the longship with a touch that was mockingly gentle.

Bile choked my breath, turned my stomach. Though he sat beside me, I could not bear to look upon my husband, to see the cruelness that lingered in his clear eyes. The sight left a bitter taste upon my lips, one that no amount of mead could wash from my tongue.

The bile lingered through our travels though the journey had been short, the seas favorable. We had reached England on the sixth day, it's high cliffs jutting over the horizon, giving way to rolling hills and leagues of rivers and forests.We sailed down its rivers, seeing not another soul save deer that would creep to the water's edge to watch our ships.

“A home by the water,” Eivor murmured, sinking from his perch to sit on the cool wooden bench beside me. “One where I can awaken each morning to see our children playing amongst the water.”

 _Children_. My heart clenched at the thought. “If that is what you wish, husband,” I answered, dark eyes lifting to study the golden trees that slowly floated by.

Eivor settled his hand upon my shoulder, though it was gentler, more hesitant than his usual touch. I knew he expected me to face him, to look into his eyes and wear my displeasure plainly so he could see it. Eivor had done much the same each night when he settled beneath the furs, his arm on my waist to pull me to him. And each night I shrugged him off, instead choosing to stare at the same dark patch in the flap of our tent instead of facing him.

“Is it what you wish?” I shrugged off his hand, wishing that I was not trapped upon the longship. “Sigrid…”

“It is what I wish, Eivor,” I answered, pulling my cloak tighter around my shoulders. My gut rolled at his words, tightening til my breath left my lips in a harsh sigh.

“England shall be good to us,” he promised.

* * *

The Sons of Ragnar, Eivor explained when the longships finally halted upriver. We were to meet with the Sons of Ragnar and offer kinship. Sigurd, who had explained as such over our campfire the past two nights, planned to meet with Halfdan Ragnarsson at his camp not far upriver. Halfdan Ragnarsson, who according to Sigurd’s careful planning and scouting, resided in the longhouse that sat ahead barely obscured by the trees.

“Is Sigurd certain this is the place?” I leaned over Eivor to survey the landing. “It appears to be long since abandoned.”

“It is the place as Sigurd says. Halfdan’s men must be waiting within the longhouse,” Eivor answered, casting a disapproving glance towards where my fingers worked to fasten my quiver about my shoulders.

“Ah yes, husband, you are right. They must be hiding in the longhouse with the massive hole in its roof.” I bit back a grin at his frown and reached for my bow only to have Eivor hold it above my head, just out of reach.

“Sigrid,” he warned when I lunged for my bow, only to have him lift it higher above his head out of reach. “You are to stay with the longboat.”

“I can help,” I instead, again reaching for my bow.

“You are no shieldmaiden, little wife,” Eivor answered, “and I cannot protect you if you do not stay in the longboat.” When I began to protest, Eivor silenced me with a glare, his body caging me til I was pressed back against the bench. “I said no.”

“I am not a wilting flower, husband.” I reached again for my bow only for him to again hold it out of reach. “I used to best you at arrow contests all of the time when we were children. I can defend myself.”

“What if there are warriors lying in wait?” Eivor stepped closer, his hips pinning me. “We do not know what awaits us on those shores.”

I stepped closer, fingers pulling at his thick beard hard enough to tear a deep moan from his throat. “I am going.”

“I would not have you take such a risk, ástin mín,” he murmured upon my lips, free hand shifting between us til it rested a dangerous distance from the clasp of my quiver. “If something were to happen to you…”

“Nothing will happen husband. I am more than capable of defending myself,” I answered, tamping down the need to roll my eyes at his concern.Eivor shifted closer, fingers stroking the fabric beneath my breasts. “Unless, elskan mín,” I whispered, hand resting upon his belt, “you mean to tie me up to keep me here.” Boldly, my hand trailed further to cup the hardness that hung between his legs with the sole purpose of driving him to madness.

“You are trying to distract me,” he groaned, head settling into the crook of my neck. “It will not work.”

“No?” I asked innocently, batting my eyes coyly, just as I had seen the maidens in the market do when they wished to attract a warrior to warm their bed. My finger trailed up and down the length of him before I squeezed again, another needy sound tumbling from his lips. It was a loud desperate noise, the hand that held my bow lowering with the intention of grasping my hips.

I acted quickly, wrenching the bow free while he was lost in the haze of pleasure. Before he could protest, I answered with a wink and vaulted over the edge of the longship, the murky water cool where it splashed on my boots.

“Sigrid,” Eivor hissed, hands quickly righting his trousers, step ungainly, awkward.

“Do not worry husband,” I called, shouldering my bow, “when the skalds sing their sagas of this moment, I will make sure that they sing of you as well.” Eivor called words of protest, lost in the sound of sloshing waves as the others joined me.

And when the first bandit stepped from the ruined tents, it was not my arrow that fell him, but my husband’s axe paired with a glare of cold fury.

I stumbled for a moment, stunned as he pushed past me, before me, shield thunking loudly as an arrow embedded itself in the wood.

“Get to the longship!” Eivor growled out the command, his shield arm faltering as another arrow hit the wood with a crack. “Sigrid, now!”

I scrambled back at his words, boots sliding in the mud before I found purchase, and returned the volley, arrow hitting the bandit squarely in the chest. “I can help!” I called to Eivor, words lost as a fist collided with my shoulder sending a bolt of hot pain through me.

The bandit had but a moment to round on my staggering form before his skull was cleaved in two by my husband’s axe. I made quick work of his companion, the man falling quickly to my arrow.

“Longship, now!” Eivor ripped my bow from my hands with a feral growl, his blue eyes burning bright with barely contained anger. “I shall not ask again.”

“Eivor…” I reasoned, cut off by the sharp pull of his fingers in my hair as he pulled my lips to his to silence my words.

“Please,” he whispered upon my lips. The fear in his words, the pleading in his eyes had any retort dying on my tongue. Eivor pressed my bow into my hands with one last pleading glance. “Go, ástin mín.”

“I will provide cover from the ship,” I called with a nod and one last press to his lips before I scrambled back towards the shore.

* * *

The last arrow came free from the man’s chest with a wet squelch. And with a quick wipe upon my breeches, it joined the others in my quiver.And with the last arrow went my last hope of ignoring the man that sat just ahead, his clear eyes burning with a fit of steady anger.

Perhaps I had missed something in the huts. It was a weak excuse for I had checked them over three times already in my loop around the dock. Inside the first hut, I was greeted again by the smell of damp rot, the same three broken pots, and one basket full of moldy turnips turned upon its side.

Once alone I let loose a long sigh, body slumping forward, my bow falling to the ground at my feet as I splayed my hands upon the only table in the hut. My shoulder ached fiercely, from hits of shields and fist, and upon my cheek, blood dried began to itch and flake over a wound opened by a punch I had taken during the assault.

Over the aches lingered exhaustion, heavy and tempting, and I longed to sink beneath the furs piled on the longship, to give in to the sleep that threatened to claim me.

“You weren’t careful.” The sunlight was blocked by a form in the doorway casting the hut in shadow.

I didn’t bother to look up from where I studied the shapes in the wood grain of the table. I did not need to look back to know that Eivor’s expression would bear the same look of blind anger that had followed my steps since we had first set foot on this beach.

“Neither were you,” I answered with a sigh, turning to find him exactly how I expected, glaring at me, his thick arms folded across his chest. When he made no move to speak, I turned back to the table, fingers picking at the bit of broken rust colored pot that had been scattered there. “It appears neither of us has gone to Valhalla.”

“And yet,” Eivor murmured, stepping closer, his features softening, “I find a valkyrie before me.” His body was warm, hard as it trapped me against the table, his hand upon my belly to pull me flush against him. “You did not remain on the longboat nor did you listen, wife.”

“O?” I murmured, words trailing off to a groan when his hand cupped my breast. “Though,” I bared my neck to him, Eivor’s beard rasping against my skin where he pressed open mouthed kisses to the flesh above my collar, “if this is to be my punishment…”

“Ástin mín.” His fingers dipped beneath the waist of my breeches to stroke between my thighs. “Promise me you shall listen.” Eivor curled over me, around me, hard length pressing urgently against my bottom.

Battle lust, that was what I heard the fishwives call what had now overwhelmed my husband. Drove a man to madness, they had whispered between themselves as I craned my neck to listen while at the baker’s stall. And the coupling that followed rivaled that of the beasts.

Now, as he pressed harder, my cheek shoved to the rough wood of the table, their words ringing in my ears. A beast, my husband had become a beast, I thought as he rut against me. With a quick kick, my legs were spread wide, my breeches pulled to my knees, and beneath him, I was his prey, trapped, held wide for him to devour.

My anger did not bleed away at the touch, nor did I swoon into his arms like a maiden from a saga. Instead, my desperate hands reached back to pull hastily at his breeches til they were about his knee, my own lust singing through my veins.

“Eivor,” I warned, shoving my hips back against his. His answer came as a growl and a sharp smack to my bottom and from my lips loosed a desperate whine at the touch. “I am still angry with you,elskan mín.”

“And I with you, Sigrid.” Eivor’s teeth bit at my neck, his thick body curled over mine to press me into the unyielding wood. “I have found that desire has overwhelmed the anger I feel, wife.” His fingers were back between my thighs, roughly teasing and stroking til only moans that sounded dangerously like pleas fell from my lips. And then he was within me, rough broad thrusts that had my fingers desperately clawing at the wood and lips pressed to the table to stifle the cries that spilled from my lips.

I was climbing, body taut beneath him, up and up til I had nearly reached my peak. The wood scraped against my skin, the edge of the table dug into the softness of my belly, the feel of Eivor heavy and warm above me, the sensations set my skin aflame til I swore I would burn from the overwhelming heat that surged through me. With each thrust, the sound that tumbled from my lips was needier than the last, each whimper of his name tinged with a desperation that boarded on crazed.

“Brother, we are need…” Sigurd’s words were lost to me as I shot to my feet with a panicked squeal, fingers hastily pulling my breeches back to my waist. Eivor stood stock still, body remaining hunched over the table, his breath escaping his nose in an annoyed exhale.

“By the gods,” I hissed, wide eyes fixed upon the now empty doorway as if Sigurd would again be there. My cheeks burned hot as coals and if I were to see them, I knew they would be as red as Sigurd’s hair. “I can never leave this room.”

Eivor appeared less affected than I, his hands steadily tucking himself into his breeches with a soft groan. “Do you intend to live here, wife? Amongst the moldy turnips?” His teasing did little to soothe the embarrassment that rippled through me and I found myself glaring in response.

“I shall, for I can never face my cousin again for as long as I shall live. And I pray that it is not long until I see the halls of Valhalla for I cannot take anymore embarrassment.”

“I did say I would like a home by the river,” Eivor mused, hands heavy upon my waist, “though the turnips are a surprise.”

“Do not mock me, wolf kissed,” I groaned into his shoulder. My anger had been replaced with burning embarrassment. Then it melted into something softer, laughter. The two of us fell against each other in a fit of laughter, and for the first time in many moons, I embraced my husband without the heavy cloud of England hanging between us.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We finally made it to England! Thanks again to everyone who read this, left comments, or gave kudos. You are amazing!


	7. Interlude: Astrid

_… anyone with knowledge of the whereabouts of archeologist, Dr. Layla Hassan is asked to come forward by the Interpol office in Oslo… Hassan was last seen leaving Oslo Gardermoen Airport over two months ago… Abstergo Industries, Ms. Hassan’s employer is offering a sizable reward for anyone with knowledge of her whereabouts…_

The radio cut off with a click, drowning the car in silence save for the gentle patter of snow upon the windshield and the nervous drumming of fingers upon the leather steering wheel.

“My father knew her,” Anders said, fingers drumming once, twice before they settled back upon the wheel. “Said she was a good employee.”

I looked up from where I picked at the seam of my wool jacket, answering with a hum of agreement. I had been doing so since the last of the city bled away to nothing but the road dimly lit by headlights. “Oh?” I asked, dutifully feigning interest, settling my boots up on the dashboard before returning to my picking. “Thought your father headed the finance division?”

Anders clicked his tongue, his hand reaching over to rest softly on my knee, thumb tracing over the bunched fabric of my jeans before he unceremoniously shoved my feet off the dashboard. “Feet,” he warned, fixing me with a narrowing of blue eyes and a thinning of lips beneath his bushy red beard.

“Road,” I answered with an eye roll, hands gesturing to the barely lit road ahead. The seat leather creaked as I squirmed trying to get comfortable, stilling only when Anders’ hand settled again upon my knee. Always the one to still my movements, I thought, leaning into the touch with a sigh. “We could still turn around,” I offered, hand settling on his own, “Maren mentioned there was a new Italian place near the square we could try. Order takeout, spend the rest of the night in bed.” I wiggled my brow suggestively, pairing it with a sharp grin.

Anders chuckled at my words, the skin around his eyes crinkling in mirth, his warm laugh settling my nerves. “As tempting as you are, elskling, you know the end of the month is dinner with my parents.”

“I don’t recall agreeing to such a thing,” I answered, fingers tugging playfully at his wiry beard.

“If I remember correctly, it was in our wedding vows. Signed and sealed upon marriage,” he answered with a dazzling grin. The same one he knew would quickly diffuse my annoyance, the same one that always diffused my annoyance. Though I wasn’t content to stop complaining just yet.Anders groaned when I tugged again at his beard.

“Was not.”

“Was too. Just after the part about sickness and health. Something about spending every last Friday of the month at your very handsome husband’s parents.” I pursed my lips in response, hand shoving his from my knee to the sound of his warm laughter.

“You’re deflecting, dearest,” I cooed, hand slapped away when it reached again for his beard. “How did your father know Dr. Hassan?”

“She needed funding for some dig in Egypt. Came and talked to my father about it,” Anders answered, eyes trained on the road as we turned into the narrow cobblestone drive. “He said she seemed to have a level head on her shoulders.”

My eyes drifted to the darkness around our hatchback, settling on the glowing light cutting through the trees and the large cabin that slowly crept into view. “Did you know her?”

“Dr. Hassan? No. Not much interaction between non-profit and R and D.” The hatchback came to a silent stop before the cabin, the soft glow of lights illuminating the interior of the car casting Anders in a halo of gold. “Can you promise me something?” His voice was soft as he leaned over the center console to press a kiss to my creased brow. “Please no fights.”

My nose wrinkled and I rolled my eyes at his words. “I maintain my defense that I never actually start any of those arguments.”

“Asta” he warned, hands gripping my shoulders to turn my body to face him when I shrugged off his warning. “I’m serious.”

“Well maybe if your mother wasn’t such a miserable…” Anders cut me off with a glare and a tightening of his grip on my shoulders.

“Astrid, please,” he begged, his grip loosening with as sigh, his body slumping back against the driver seat. My strong Anders looked so defeated, so tired, his shoulders sagging, his eyes screwed shut. I knew it was the beginning of the same fight we had every last Friday of the month. One tense dinner later, and Anders and I would spend the rest of the drive back to Oslo arguing about whatever snide remark his mother had made over the dessert course. And then we wouldn’t speak for at least two days until he would slink back home with a bundle of fresh flowers and we would again christen our entryway table. It was like clockwork, so much so that after our first year of marriage I permanently booked our fight into my schedule.

“Anders…I…yes, of course,” I agreed softly, hand fumbling with latch, the need to breathe fresh air, to get out of the thick tension that hung in the car between us overpowering any desire I had to say in the warm car. I stepped into the frigid night air with a gasp, my chest tightening as the cool air sunk beneath my jacket.

“Elskling,” he murmured, hands heavy upon my waist, the gesture startling my souring mood away. So silent, I thought with a smile as Anders pressed a gentle kiss to my forehead, though he had the size and bulk of a modern day Viking. “Let's get out of the cold. Your nose has turned a beautiful shade of pink.” He punctuated his words with a nip of teeth to the chilled tip of my round nose.

Mercifully before I had to force a polite smile onto my face, my phone vibrated in my pocket. With a quick murmur of apology and instructions to go in without me, I stepped back around the hatchback, trying very hard to ignore the look of disappointment on Anders’ face.

“Hello?,” I answered, hissing in surprise when the cool glass of my phone connected with my cheek.

“You okay, Ast?” With the question came barely concealed laughter.

“Beks, hey,” I murmured, casting a quick look towards Anders repeating back before slumping against the trunk with a sigh. “Sorry, I meant to call earlier, but something came up.”

“No problem,” she answered, and I was surprised by Rebecca Crane’s quick dismissal of blame. “Wanted to see how those adjustments were treating you.”

“Good. No more headaches, thank god. I am eternally in your debt for finally fixing that.” As I spoke, my fingers absentmindedly slipped beneath my soft dark curls to trace along the spot on my spine where the Animus node had rested only a few hours ago. If I pressed hard enough, I could still feel the tacky glue on my skin. “I was beginning to run out of excuses for why I was suddenly getting migraines all the time. Pretty sure Anders was convinced I had some form of brain tumor.”

“Happy to help. Find anything interesting while you were in there?” Her tone was light, but I knew she was really asking if I had found anything that would help find Layla.

“Those coordinates you sent put me pretty early in Sigrid’s timeline, but no, nothing yet.”

“Oh, yeah makes sense. Let me make some more adjustments and I’ll get back to you,” she answered, voice thick with barely concealed guilt. “Eriksson job work out?”

“Went a little too clean, but yeah, he won’t be bothering anyone anytime soon.” I shifted, turning to see Anders watching from the window, his hands motioning me inside. I shrugged in response, motioning to my phone with a feigned look of concern. One he answered with a glance I was very familiar with—disappointment. If I wasn’t going to freeze to death in the next ten minutes, then I might have stayed out here all night just to annoy him. Hopefully my headstone would read something about how my stubbornness was what eventually killed me.

“Good. I’ll let Cal know that you’re looking for another job.”

“Cal’s in Europe?” My boots skidded along the ice as I froze in my pacing. “Thought he was staying in New York?”

“Told me there were some points of concern in your last report. Wanted to check it out himself.” Could almost hear Cal saying the words if he was on the other end of the line. _You’re getting too close, Astrid. Need to pull back._

The text message from an unknown number had flashed on my screen nearly a week ago, and even though there was no name attached, I knew who it was. Never approved of my methods anyway. Why start now?

“Yeah. Well, let him know he wasted a trip. Everything’s just peachy here.”

I sighed, gaze drifting to the windows of the cabin and the banshee that stood in the window glaring down at me. In her grey dress, hair pulled severely back from her lean face, and her features pinched in annoyance, I might have thought she was an angry spirit. Her thin lips thinned more than I thought possible, the line of crimson nearly disappearing in her displeasure as she pointed one manicured finger towards the door.

“Sorry, Beks, I have to run,” I admitted with a sigh, forcing a smile onto my face as I nodded in acknowledgment of the woman’s instructions.

“Mother in law found you?”

“Unfortunately.” When she pointed again, I shrugged and turned my back to the window to buy myself a few more moments. “I better go before she sends Anders out to get me.” I could already imagine my bear of a husband fixing me with his kicked puppy look that screamed of exasperated disappointment.”I’ll send my report over when I get back to the apartment.”

“Looking forward to it, Ast. Tell Anders I said hi.”

* * *

I was going to die of boredom or perhaps the subpar chicken would kill me first. I had long ago begun to tune out the talk of company figures and charity events in favor of planning my assault on the table around me. If I adjusted my trajectory two degrees, the peas on my spoon would hit Anders directly in the forehead and hopefully knock the stupid look of feigned interest off his face as he answered his mother’s interrogation about the latest project his division had undertaken.

“Have you picked out a dress for the party, Astrid? It is in two days' time after all.” Cecilie’s clipped tone startled me from my planning, my peas and spoon falling to my china plate with a loud clang. The disapproving pursing of lips followed, both from my husband across the table, and his mother, who sipped daintily at her third glass of wine.

“Party,” I asked, coughing to cover my surprise at her question. When I glanced towards Anders, expecting to receive an answer, instead finding him studying his dinner with too much interest for it to be genuine. “You’re having a party?”

“Anders didn’t tell you?” So it would seem that the picking was early this month. Anders moved to protest, silenced quickly by a pursing of lips. “He is to be the director of Future Technologies, a promotion we are very proud of.” Cecilie’s smile hit an unbearable smugness. Ah, there was the Asleson family pride, and there was the first check on my insufferable mother in law bingo sheet.

Fighting back the urge to roll my eyes, I instead chose to focus on my clearly pretending to be oblivious husband who shrugged under my gaze. “He mentioned a small promotion at work,” I answered, trying to cling to my patience, which was rapidly slipping through my fingers, “though apparently, I must have misheard him.”

“No it is a small promotion,” Anders murmured, pinning me with a look that spoke of a man caught in a lie and was pleading for mercy. “I hoped to not make such a big deal of it, but you know mother.”

“If your father were here, he would agree that such news deserves such celebration,” she answered with a dismissive wave of her hands. “Two Asleson men on the Abstergo board of directors is nothing to scoff at, darling.”

“Oh, no scoffing here.” I shot Anders a grin, which he returned half hidden behind his flaming beard and the rim of his wine glass. “I suppose if it is in two days' time, then I shall just have to wear something from my closet,” I answered, forcing all of the pretentiousness in my body into those words. Across the table, Anders responded with a snort and a series of coughs as he choked on his wine. “But unfortunately, I will be out of town this weekend on business.”

“Is that so,” Cecilie asked, her lips pursed so tightly I was sure they would get stuck in a permanent frown. It wasn’t a question, not really, more a sigh of disappointment tinged with an emotion that looked an awful lot like elation. “Then we shall have to pair you up with someone for the evening, darling. I believe the youngest Sivertson daughter is still single, perhaps she could be your date for the evening?”

“Mother…”

“I said I was going to be out of town, not dying,” I answered, failing to keep my tone neutral, but I found I didn’t really care despite the pained expression Anders shot in my direction. “Missing one party and you’re already shopping around for my replacement? My god Cecilie, you are more ruthless than I gave you credit for.” I clutched at the plush cushion of the seat so tightly the fabric began to give way under the pressure. So much for not picking fights. “I wouldn’t be surprised if you were serving our divorce papers for dessert.”

“What will the papers say when the new director of Abstergo Future Technologies has been photographed alone at his own event? And after you were absent at the Founder’s Gala last month?” Cecilie finished the last of her wine, elegant and gnarled fingers holding the glass out to be refilled. “A family like ours must be concerned with appearances. You should know this by now, my dead.”

I found myself lingering on her fingers, how they spoke highly of the reality around me. It had been a habit of mine ever since Anders had introduced me to his family. _One glance and you’ll see the truth_ , he had whispered when I stumbled through my first high society event. Though Cecilie and her surroundings appeared beautiful, manicured, they did little to hide the grim truth underneath. That below her feigned youth and elegant dresses sat a core that was rotten, decrepit. Just like how the house around me hid its decay beneath elegant and cold decor.

“Appearances?” The question was choked out over the rage that bubbled in my throat. So far she had ticked all of the usual boxes, horrible wife, not living up to her standards. Only one more to go and it would be a complete set. “And what exactly is that supposed to mean?”

“Yes appearances,” her answer was clipped, strained. I looked over towards Anders for help, and he instead shoved a forkful of chicken into his mouth. “If you had children, that would have been an appropriate excuse.” I bristled at her words, at my husband’s indifference to them. There was the final tick on the list, and I had but a moment to choke back the hot rush of shame that burned my cheeks.

“Speaking of excuses,” I bit out, abandoning my napkin as I stood sharply, “if you’ll excuse me. I just realized I have a busy day tomorrow.” The weight of the room, the air, had grown too heavy until I was sure my shoulders would break, my spine snap under the pressure.

I tried to ignore the hurt look that crossed Anders’ face as I left the room, tried to ignore the way he instinctually rose to follow. The sob that had caught in my throat tore loose in a series of hiccoughing breaths, my back aching where I slumped against the hallway end table.

“Astrid?” Up went the walls, quickly built constructs of steel and stone, til I was once again a mask of indifference. _Never show your cards._ Cal had whispered those words to me what felt like a lifetime ago, back when we were children caught in the orphanage’s kitchens, sugared frosting staining our lips. But I had shown my cards, had shown just how much her comment had affected me.

“Are you really leaving?”

“You stay, catch up with your mother,” I answered, forcing my voice to remain as neutral as possible. “I’ll call for a car to take me home.”

“Astrid, please stay,” Anders murmured, kind expression faltering when I flinched away at his touch. “At least let me take you home.”

“Ah! There you are!” Henrik Asleson emerged from his study with a broad sweeping of his arms and a warm smile. A perfect copy of his son, ginger beard and all, Henrik was impeccably dressed in a pressed suit despite appearing to have been locked in his study for most of the day. “Leaving so soon, Anders?”

“I was just telling Anders to stay,” I answered quickly before my husband could open his mouth. “I have completely forgotten that I have an early day at the firm tomorrow and wanted to get back to Oslo before the storm picks up.”

“You must stay for one drink!” Henrik had already guided us into his study before any words of protests left my lips. “And there’s someone I want you to meet.”

“I suppose I can muster for one drink,” I breathed, fixing Anders with a smile that I had hoped conveyed that I was in fact okay.

“Good! Anders, go check on your mother. I want to get your wife’s opinion on a new piece just sent from the Cairo office.”

The study was warm, far warmer than the dining room and hallway had been, each wall lined with crammed bookshelves, and where there had been any free space artifacts worth more than Anders’ and I’s modest flat were stuffed between the shelves.

The study before me had been my sanctuary behind the cabin walls. Had been the place where I could hide during the high society parties I had been drug to. A place where I could curl up before the fire in one of the comfortable wingback chairs and wait for Anders to find me. And he always did in the end. We’d both down a finger of Henrik’s very expensive whiskey, and we always made good use of the bookshelves before someone found us.

Tucked in the shelves were pieces of the Code of Hammurabi, a disturbingly good replication of the Magna Carta, and all matters of antiques that must have cost a small fortune. I lingered just long enough to study one of the clay pot fragments displayed on the shelf closest to the door. Etruscan and very well preserved.

“I hope Cecilie didn’t give you too much trouble,” Henrik said a touch too smoothly for my likeness as he pressed a tumbler of whiskey into my hands. “I know she can be a bit much.”

The whiskey went down as smooth as his words. “No permanent damage,” I answered, settling to leaf through one of the open volumes on the large oak desk in the center of the room. Henrik’s mysterious companion remained in one of the chairs, his profile cast in soft golden firelight, though I could have sworn I had seen it before.

“Good. Here, look at this.” On the desk was a stone tablet in remarkable condition, the only sign of its age was the crumbling just at one of the top corners. “New Kingdom. Unearthed beneath a strip mall in Cairo.”

“You know, you could just pay my consulting fees like everyone else,” I laughed, setting my drink down to get a closer look. “It's definitely New Kingdom. The markings are odd though, not something I’ve seen before. They're almost modern in appearance, like something created in the past century. I’m guessing your companion has something to say about it.”

At my words, his companion stood, and I knew where I had seen his face before. Only I hadn’t been the one who had seen it. It was the face of an impossible man, one I had stared into nearly two centuries ago.

“Basim Ibn Ishaq. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, I'm a little late on the updates! Holidays are always super busy, and on top of that my Master's proposal was due as well so this had to be pushed back a bit.
> 
> I'm posting two chapters this week because I'm not quite sure how the modern bit is going to land and didn't want it to be the only update. Long story short, Astrid is the person in the Animus following Sigrid's story. Her story takes place in modern times post game.
> 
> I'm hoping to intersperse her chapters into the main storyline, and I promise they are going to make sense eventually. I also was hoping to dig into the Asgard bit as well, but we shall see if I can juggle three separate story lines.


	8. Chapter Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ravensthorpe grew much like the limbs of a tree til it soon spread over the hillside like the branches of Yggdrasil. The once empty pathway that led to the longhouse was now filled with market stalls and small huts. People weaved in and out of the street, the sound of laughter and conversation filling the air around Ravensthorpe. Colors and smells and sights that overwhelmed and delighted me each time I made my morning trip through the market. Children scurried by chasing after barking dogs, each time I walked the market, a basket filled with whatever new wonders the merchants offered.

Ravensthorpe grew much like the limbs of a tree til it soon spread over the hillside like the branches of Yggdrasil. The once empty pathway that led to the longhouse was now filled with market stalls and small huts. People weaved in and out of the street, the sound of laughter and conversation filling the air around Ravensthorpe. Colors and smells and sights that overwhelmed and delighted me each time I made my morning trip through the market. Children scurried by chasing after barking dogs, each time I walked the market, a basket filled with whatever new wonders the merchants offered.

Spices from lands to the east purchased at Yanli’s stall, a loaf of Tarben’s freshly baked bread, two freshly caught trouts purchased from the fishmonger who was on his was to Wessex, a length of soft wool dyed the red of fall leaves that would become a new winter cloak for Eivor, and my newest discovery, golden raspberries in a vial full of sweet syrup from Redda’s tent of oddities.

To bring luck to your marriage bed, he had whispered when he pressed the vial into my waiting hands, and to thank the Wolf Kissed for his help. I hadn’t the heart to tell him that nothing was happening in my marriage bed because it was only I who still slept in it.

Ahead of me ran Knud and Eira, both carrying the remainder of my goods, chattering excitedly about the sweets they planned to purchase with their owed silver.

“Careful, Knud,” I warned gently, using my free hand to right the tipped pile of furs he carried, “we mustn’t drop anything.”

Knud shifted his posture til he was ramrod straight, his movements stilted and deliberate as he rushed after a dog that ran ahead of our small group.

“Sigrid!” Petra emerged from her stall with a bright smile and a wrapped parcel that still dripped blood from the corner. “How are you today?”

“Well enough, thank you,” I answered with a smile, accepting the parcel when she placed it into my basket. “And what is this?”

“Eivor mentioned that you have developed an appetite for fresh venison as of late,” Petra admitted with a shrug. If it was not venison, then it was sweet rolls or a bracer of rabbits or some other treat each time I requested any variation in my daily meals.

 _“_ Better you than me. I suppose with your marriage they have finally given up on Sigurd and I” _,_ Randvi had admitted when I awkwardly accepted another offered bundle of sweet rolls nigh a fortnight ago. And despite the odd look of sadness that quickly flashed across her features, she appeared relieved by her admission.

“Given up on? I do not understand your meaning, sister.” Another gift, this time a cask of honey mead pressed into the waiting arms of the servant who walked behind us.

“Have you not noticed how they all watch you very closely?” I had in fact noticed the lingering glances, the quiet whispers when I walked the market stalls. “Waiting to see when it happens. I have six silver that you shall show before midwinter.”

“I cannot tell if you are being purposefully coy,” I answered, “or you just wish to make me suffer.”

“The people of Ravensthorpe, as do I, wonder when you shall finally begin to swell with child. It is not as if Eivor and you are subtle in your affections.” I had bristled at her knowing smile, the meaning behind her words.

“Then you shall all be disappointed because my husband does not seem to wish to linger in our bed long enough to put one in my belly.” I sighed and accepted yet another parcel with a gracious smile.

That conversation had been a fortnight ago, just before Eivor had set off for Grantebridgescire with a kiss and a promise to return as soon as he was able. And yet the gifts did not stop, though I quickly found that my husband was partly to blame for the influx of extra goods pressed into my hands each time I walked the marketplace.

Sweets, bolts of elegant cloth, and my favorite gift, a delicate dagger Eivor had commissioned from Gunnar. A thin blade with an elegant handle that hung cool on my hip.

“He payed for seven silvers’ worth before he left and told me to deliver it to you each new moon when you returned from the market,” Petra answered when I raised my eyebrow at the additional parcel she added to my basket.

“Ah, of course. My bear of a husband insists that because I cannot eat the entirety of a horse at each meal as he does, I do not eat enough.” I answered, my lips pursed in annoyance. “Not even here, and he still insists playing the mother hen,” I groused to Eira who answered with a bright, toothy grin. “Thank you for the venison Petra, it shall not go to waste.” I left her with a promise to return another day for more, a promise she answered with a sweet grin before ducking back into her shop.

Eira slowed to walk beside me, her own basket of fresh wildflowers from the stall near the docks held tight in her small hands. “Will you come to pick flowers with us soon, Sigrid?”

“Of course Eira,” I answered with a soft smile. “Though I am to accompany Sigurd to Ledecestrescire.” I again steadied Knud’s furs with a light touch. “Perhaps when I return you can show me the best places to pick flowers?”

“Knud only wants to fight, but I want to pick flowers and explore!” She was pouting, bottom lip jutted forward. Eira followed me into the longhouse, chattering on about a house she had found in the woods, her basket tipping just enough to leave a trail of blue wildflowers after us.

“Well, Eira,” I set my basket upon the table just inside the small room Eivor and I shared. A gift from Sigurd to his second. _Married couples should not have to live in a tent._ A room we had not yet enjoyed, I thought, gaze settling for a moment upon the empty bed with a heavy sigh. Knud had deposited the furs hastily upon the bed and run off back to the market before we had arrived. “You are welcome to bring me the flowers you pick whenever you like.”

Her basket joined mine and I pressed a pair of silver coins into her palm with a promise that she would share with Knud. Eira nodded with a grin before turning and bounding off back towards the market.

Upon my pillow was waiting a small bundle of mountain blooms tied with a bit of twine.Sýnin must have arrived when I had been at the market and only lingered long enough to drop the gift upon my pillow. Eivor’s way of letting me know that despite his extended absence, he still lived.

No note, no hastily scribbled poem, and yet my hand connected with something hard and cool beneath the pillow. Parchment, elegantly folded and carefully placed. Atop was a note in strange, looping script—Hytham. With a sigh, my basket forgotten, I retrieved his tomes from beside the bed and set back off towards the docks.

He was waiting, sitting upon the steps of the bureau eyes, fixed upon the parchment in his hands. “I see you found my message, Lady Wolf” he stated without looking up, his seriousness betrayed by the small smile upon his lips. I wrinkled my nose at the name, one Hytham had bestowed upon me not long after we had met. _You are the wife of a wolf, the title is most fitting._

“You could have just taken the tomes if you have no problem slipping into my room unannounced,” I grumbled sitting beside him. Ahead, children ran through the streets, Eira, Knud, and a handful of others eagerly feasting on shared sweet rolls. The sight brought a much needed smile to my face.

“And how did you find al-Mawsili?” Hytham eagerly accepted the tomes from my hands, cradling them close as if he were a new parent holding a babe.

“Beautiful,” I sighed, eyes fluttering shut at the memory of the words slipping over me as I read, and then to the mostly unbidden memory of Eivor tracing the words onto my back with his lips and tongue as I read to him.“Thank you for allowing me to translate them.”

“Of course,” he stood, motioning me to follow. “You are the only person I have found who is interested in my collection. And your husband, but I have found that he does not have the patience to learn as you do.” Inside he pressed a thick stack of parchment into my arms. “A scholar and a warrior. You make a strange pair.”

“You are a scholar and warrior, Hytham,” I answered, settling the tomes upon my hip. “It is not so strange in my lands. Even the finest skalds must be able to defend themselves if the Norns call upon them to do so.”

“But do you not wish for the heat of battle? Do you not thirst for the glory of your Valhalla?” Hytham settled back into his perch at the bookshelf, eyes watching expectantly. “I have seen how you shy from talk of war, yet you linger at the table when the discussion trails to talks of alliances and diplomacy."

“You are far too observant, my friend.” My answering smile was gentle, sincere. “It is true. I would much rather leave the fighting to my husband, as much as it pains me to do so.” The tomes were abandoned upon a shelf as I turned to sift through the stack of parchment before me. “And I have found that scholarly pursuits have warmed my bed far better than my husband as of late.” Practice sheets and translations, my new source of companionship since Eivor had sailed off to new adventures. Had taken the empty place in my bed and brightened my eyes when I awoke long before the first light of dawn.

In the early days of our settlement at Ravensthorpe, I had wandered into the tent that served as the bureau while searching for Eivor to find Hytham deep in some sort of ritual. I had simply watched, listened to the strange language he spoke, to the way he moved his form while in prayer. I had returned the next day, full of questions, and after a week of constant bothering, he agreed to teach me.

A fast learner, he declared when just a moon ago, I had finally been able to translate a text completely without his help. “At least I’ll have these to keep me company for the rest of the day,” I sighed.

“Ah yes, I hear your husband has not yet returned. I had hoped for news of his success by now.”

“As had I…Sigurd means to leave for Ledecestrescire in the morning and I had hoped to see Eivor before setting out. How goes your search?”

Hytham smiled, eyes trailing to the parchment nailed to the far wall and the bits of red he had hung there. “Well enough. Eivor has been helpful in clearing the order from Grantebridgescire, but there is much still to do.”

“Basim would be proud,” I answered with a bright smile, fingers tracing over the parchment he shoved into my hands. “You have accomplished much since we came to England.”

“As have you, Lady Wolf, but we have much more work to do.”

* * *

Mercia was cold and wet with an eternal blanket of mud that seeped into the soles of your boots despite all attempts to keep it out. It was the sort of mud that chilled your bones and dampened your mood more thoroughly than the air ever could.My boots squelched loudly as I shifted uncomfortably, whatever patience I had left in my body seeping from my toes with the mud that seeped between my toes. Repton was filled with the stuff, its roads and alleys choked with muck and dirt.

Again, I shifted my boots, soles sliding in the mud when I failed to gain purchase. My opponent took advantage of my loss of footing, their staff swinging quickly towards my unprotected side. I had but a moment to skid through the mud, body twisting painfully to avoid the blow.

Again they swiped, this time for my legs, left undefended by my misstep. And again I twisted, striking their staff with my own in an awkward parry.

“Finish her, twig, before my balls shrivel and fall off!” On command, my opponent swiped, clumsily, hastily, and I was easily able to knock away the blow. “You are not a simpering woman. Use your staff and end her”

From at my back came the call of, “She wolf! Footing!” Another shifting, feet planted a shoulder’s width apart before I made my move. I swiped again, this time quickly swinging my staff towards their feet, only to twist quickly and land the blow at the back of their legs.

My opponent staggered before sinking to their knees in the mud, my staff pressed to their belly. “Do you yield, lord?”

“It seems I do,” came their answer, pleasant despite the mud drying on both our britches. “Well fought, Sigrid.”

“And you, lord.” I helped him to his feet, accepted his staff when he offered it to me. “You have gotten better these past few moons.”

“Better?” Spit landed in the mud beside my feet. “Pah, waste of his father’s spendings, says I. This is the third time, twig, that the she wolf has bested you.”

“Yet he fought bravely and honorably, which is more than I can say for you, Ragnarsson,” I shot back, shoving both of the staffs into Ivarr’s chest, very much enjoying his answering grunt of pain. “Ceolbert is more than capable of defending the honor of any maiden he finds.”

“I shall take great honor in defending yours,” Ceolbert replied as he passed me my cloak. “If you would allow me.”

“And I cannot wait for the famed Wolfkissed to arrive so that I may watch him tear the twig’s balls from his body for looking at his woman.”

“You need not worry, Ceolbert. My husband is not nearly as fierce as Ivarr gives him credit for,” I answered, looping my arm through Ceolbert’s with the intention of escorting him to his father. “And I think you’ll find that Eivor is very different than the Danes you are used to.”

“Is it true that your men perfume their beards and hair?” The questions began the moment we left the square. Ceolbert was in fine form that morning, each question more eager than the last. He had often served as my escort when I walked the streets of Repton, though I was beginning to wonder if I served as his as well.

“My men?” I giggled at the question. For all his questions, Ceolbert had served as a fine companion while my cousin, his father, the future king Ceowulf, and the Sons of Ragnar schemed over their maps and plans. I found that he was a welcome distraction from Ivarr, who often served as our surly guard.

“Have you not heard the Lady Wolfkissed perfuming my ass each night, twig? She makes such lovely sounds when she is alone in her tent.” I coughed into my sleeve to hide the flush that quickly crept up my neck and onto my cheeks.

“The sounds I make in my tent, Ivarr Ragnarsson, are my own. And if I wished to share them with another, then it would be with my husband.” I slapped away the apple Ivarr offered paired with a less than innocent smile. “As for beards, yes, Ceolbert, I suppose they do. My husband is very particular over the state of his beard and hair,” I answered, words trailing off as a pang of sadness cut through me. “I have been his wife for but a short time, but I have already learned that his hair must be braided a certain way and his beard must always be trimmed as he likes it.”

Another moon had passed and I still spent my nights alone in my bed with no husband to warm it. Word had come that Eivor had successfully secured an alliance in Grantebridgescire along with the promise of men and supplies and the full support of jarlskona, but none had come after that. According to Sigurd, Eivor was expected to arrive in Repton any day.

“When I become king and grow a beard, shall I have to perfume it as the Northmen do?” His question drew me quickly from my grief and I found myself smiling despite the ache in my chest.

“If that is what you wish, lord. You may have a mighty beard and many maidens to perfume it,” I answered. “Or you shall have to settle for your wife doing it before each great battle you fight. And when you return, she shall be waiting with a warm smile and an even warmer bed.”

“And countless women to warm your cock,” Ivarr added.

“I think I do,” Ceolbert said after a moment of contemplation. “Want a beard that is. I have often told my father that we Saxons should adopt a more Danish way of life. Perhaps I shall start with a beard.”

“Sigrid, there you are.” Sigurd stepped from the crowd, his brow creased in grim concentration that had my heart sinking at the sight. I murmured a quick promise to Ceolbert to find him for sparring in the morning before following Sigurd back up the hill. “I have been searching for you. You must come with me, cousin.”

“I was sparring with Ceolbert. He’s already improved greatly in the past week.” My gaze fell to the parchment gripped in his hand. “Has something happened,” I asked, eagerly accepting the bit of parchment he pressed into my hands. “Eivor has left Ravensthorpe and makes for Repton. He brings much of the Raven Clan’s forces with him.” When Sigurd did not answer, I continued reading. “This missive is from two days ago. Our army should have been here by now.”

“Arrived just before the messenger.” Sigurd nodded up the hill toward where the… “Saxons. They took them on the road. Eivor was injured in the assault, cousin. The healer is seeing to his wounds,” he soothed, clearly noticing the way my gaze lingered on the healer’s tent, a mound of blue cloth that stuck out amongst the sea of red.

I didn’t linger long enough to hear the rest of his words, couldn’t linger when my chest had clenched so painfully I was sure I would die from the feeling alone. I wove easily through the crowd, or it parted easily by the crazed look upon my face.

Before I reached the tent I could hear the calls of dying men, the sound of the Valkyries walking amongst them. Men who instead of limbs had blood stumps, instead of eyes red rimmed holes. The closer the tent, the worse the soldiers. Some were dying, their last breaths choking wet noises over the blood that pooled about their lips. Others were already dead, stiff hands still gripping broken axes to their still chests. I stumbled back from a broken hand that reached for my boots, sleeve pressed hastily to my lips to stifle my retching breaths.

“Lady.” Strong hands gripped my arm and pulled me back to safety. “Are you well?” I recognized the speaker as Torrun, the woman my husband called Jomsviking. She was covered in the same gore as the men around her, blood painting her armor as red as the tent she stood before. I had met her just once, remembered that she had hair the color of silken gold. It was now nearly black with blood.

“I had hoped,” I stammered, eyes unable to focus on any one spot for but a moment. Instead, it lingered on each soldier, each dying man and woman in hopes of seeing some sign of… “My husband?” The question was breathless, choked around the panic that clenched at my chest. “Is he…”

“Follow me, lady.” Her gloved hand was comfortingly warm in my own. “I will take you to him.” Torrun led us through the choked streets full of soldiers, far from the healer’s tent to a hut that sat near the gates of Repton.It was a rundown thing, thatched roof half collapsed, but still whole. “We were afraid to move him from where he fell, lady.”

“What happened? How were so many men lost?”

“A trap, lady,” Torrun admitted, holding the door for me to enter. “The Saxons were waiting for us on the road. They were on us before we had a chance to form the shield wall. Your husband fought back as many as he could before we were overrun.”

Inside, I found Dag sitting at the small table with a woman I had never seen before, both sharpening their axes in tense silence. Upon the only cot in the small dwelling lay Eivor, pale and unmoving.


	9. Chapter Seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A throne for a queen. The thought, fleeting, brief was not my own, the voice so similar yet so foreign amongst my thoughts. He would give you a throne drenched in blood and kiss the ground beneath your feet should you ask him to. Again the vision swam before me, Eivor resplendent in shining armor encrusted in jewels as bright as the stars in the night sky on his knees before me, his lips pressed to my blood soaked feet. And I, clad in all the jewels upon the earth upon a shining throne soaked in blood.
> 
> You shall be a queen, it is your birthright.

Tamworth burned at my back, flames licking hot even through the layers of my sweat soaked camise and cloak. Christian hell, I thought, this must have been the hell Ceolbert spoke of with such fear. In the air hung the heavy stench of blood, the cries of dying men, the calls of feasting ravens, and the steady dripping of blood where it fell from my tightly clenched fingers that did little to hide the tremors that wracked them.

I was matted with it, my hair and skin slick with the blood of the men that had fallen to the blade gripped so heavy between my fingers, from the axe that hung at my belt. I whispered my thanks, a prayer to Freyja for sparing those who still lived fell easily from my lips to settle on the wind to join Sýnin’s calls from above.

“You fought well, little shield maiden.” The endearment brought a small smile to my grim expression and the presence of my companion beside me did much to lift my mood. “Your training has served you well.”

“So it has,” I murmured, fingers wiping the blood along the edge of my thick cloak, blue trimmed with rabbit fur, a gift from Sigurd on the eve of battle, as had been the armor that hung heavy on my shoulders. “Though I have found no taste for battle and even less of an appetite for war.”

“Your appetite for glory shall increase with time,” my companion answered, thumb rough where it swiped blood from my cheek. “And soon you shall hunger for it above all else.”

“And it shall guide your blade and influence your thoughts until all that consumes you is the thirst for knowledge.” The warning came easily enough, dredged from memory. One that had been spoken by priest and thrall alike.“I think you shall find yourself disappointed that you are not Odin, husband, and you shall not be so easily consumed.”

“And you are not Frigg, wife.” Eivor’s words were gentle where they settled on my shoulders. The thought was heady, enticing, the vision of he and I as king and queen flittering through my vision before catching as wisps of smoke on the wind.

 _A throne for a queen._ The thought, fleeting, brief was not my own, the voice so similar yet so foreign amongst my thoughts. _He would give you a throne drenched in blood and kiss the ground beneath your feet should you ask him to._ Again the vision swam before me, Eivor resplendent in shining armor encrusted in jewels as bright as the stars in the night sky on his knees before me, his lips pressed to my blood soaked feet. And I, clad in all the jewels upon the earth upon a shining throne soaked in blood.

_You shall be a queen, it is your birthright._

“Though your beauty speaks otherwise.” His words, kind gentle, so unlike the cloying thoughts, startled me from the strange darkness that had settled over me thick and heavy as the pile of furs I long to climb beneath.

“And what of you, elskan mín?Have your wounds held through battle?” He appeared hale, happy even, battle drunk on the carnage at our feet. For the first time since Eivor rose from the hut in Repton, color blossomed on his cheeks, warmed no doubt by the heat of battle.

Just a scratch, he had insisted when he finally awoke. Had pushed the healer away with harsh words, only faltering when I forced him to allow me to bandage his wounds. “They will need to be redressed, wife,” he admitted, though I was surprised he did so. Each time I inquired of his health I was met with teasing and deep kisses until the questions died on my lips. “And I have other needs that shall need to be attended to.” His hands were gentle when they slipped my sword back into its scabbard, his lips even gentler when they pressed to my own. His tongue soon joined, swiping along the seam of my lips till I groaned into the kiss and allowed him entrance.

His taste clouded my senses, drug my defenses down until I gave in to each touch, each kiss without little care for the world around us. My back hit solid stone, he following, caging me between the hard planes of his form and the wall at my back.

“Sigurd will be looking for us,” I groaned when his lips found the bit of skin that lay bare above my collar. As if controlled by a force that was not my own, my fingers threaded through his dark hair to hold him against me, to urge his lips to fasten to my skin. “And I cannot bear any more shame by your hands, elskan mín.”

“Let him wait.” Eivor’s hands had grown more insistent, more focused in their wanderings, down my back to cup my rear and haul me closer.

“Eivor…” His name escaped my lips as a whine and less of the warning I had intended for it to be, his lips fastening to my own to swallow the sound. I was rapidly becoming adrift, my thoughts scattering with each swipe of teeth and tongue. “We should make for the longhouse.” Again his hands shifted, thumbs rubbing over the small of my back soothing the ache that had been building there.

“It can wait, ástin mín.”

I longed to let him draw me to the hut ahead, to strip me of my soiled clothing. And yet I tugged at his beard with reluctant fingers when his hands drifted to my belt. “Soon, husband. We must ensure our quandary has been captured.”

“Sigurd can handle the Brothers, wife.” I had but a moment to protest before I was hefted over Eivor’s shoulder.

“Put me down you troll,” I exclaimed, fists beating half heartedly at his back as Eivor stepped into one of the alleys of Tamworth and out of sight. “We must go to the longhouse.”

“And I,” Eivor answered, settling me back on my feet with a mischievous grin, “must see that my wife is still whole. For I do not believe she escaped the battle without a single scratch” His hands were warm and heavy upon my thighs, questing, searching until they found the laces of my breeches. “I shall start here.”

“I can assure you that I am quite hale, husband.” I slapped away his fingers with a soft smile, “and we still must meet your brother at the longhouse.”

Eivor groaned, long and low against my chest, his head pressed against my soft breasts, his breath warm wetness against the rough cloth of my camise. “And if I do not want to?” The question was soft, insolent, much like a naughty child who had been caught doing mischief. “What if I wish to stay in the alley forever with my very alluring wife beneath me?”

“I fear you shall find yourself alone, husband. For I mean to head to the longhouse to meet with my cousin, as is expected of us.” I managed to detangle myself from his grasp with sweet kisses and gentle fingers.

“Such honor, wife!” His arm draped heavily about my shoulders as I led him towards the longhouse with promises of a warm bed that evening should he follow without complaint. “Have we switched places? Have you become Sigurd’s sworn drengr in my stead?”

“Perhaps,” I answered with a bright smile, brighter than I had given in many moons. Despite the blood that dried upon my cheeks and the bodies that littered my steps, I felt light as air, as lights as Sýnin’s feathers that he had woven into my braid the night before the battle. To have Eivor, hale and in good spirits by my side did much to clear away whatever darkness had settled upon my shoulders. “Or perhaps I am not ruled by my desire to hump every moment we are alone, husband.”

“To hump, you say?” Again the world was upended as I was swept into his arms, our shared laughter startling Sýnin from her perch in the trees above. “Shall I show you how much I desire to do so? How it is always on my mind?” His lips pressed to mine, soft, impossibly gentle, the dark hair of his thick, wiry beard tickling at the skin of my neck till I broke the kiss in a fit of giggles.

I moved to protest, to explain yet again we were needed in the longhouse when I was silenced by Eivor’s hand clapping over my mouth. He was taut as a bowstring, poised, waiting, one hand still holding me against him, the other slowly reaching for his belt. I heard it then, the sound that had startled him, a soft rustling in the alley ahead. Someone was approaching, quietly, in the shadows, the only sound heralding their approach the soft slapping of footsteps upon stone.

“Mama?” The child was barely a shadow and hardly any danger, stumbling when she stepped out of the alleyway and into the waning sense. She was a frail thing, clothed in a torn dress matted with blood long since gone cold and reddened cheeks stained with fresh tears. “Where is mama?”

“Little one.” I was out of Eivor’s arms before he could stop me, my cloak slipped off my shoulders to wrap around the girl’s shaking form. “What has happened?”

“Men,” she sobbed, small arms thrown about my neck to hold me close, “men came and mama told me to hide.” The feel of the child in my arms had my chest clenching with an unfamiliar ache, and I tightened my grip around her to hold her closer.

“O, little one,” I soothed when she buried her face into my neck, her tears wetting my camise. “You are safe now. The men have all gone.” I cast a glance back towards Eivor who answered with a constrained look of pity.

We both knew what had happened to the child’s mother, she had been drug away as a spoil of the siege. If she had been lucky, she was killed in the siege, if not, then I prayed she was dead and not being passed around the Ragnarsson camp. “What is your name?”

“Sylvie, lady.”

“Lady,” I teased, smile gentle, the strange ache still fresh in my chest. “I can assure you I am no lady, Sylvie. You may call me Sigrid.” When she cast a fearful gaze towards Eivor, I brushed my fingers over her matted curls. “And this brute is my husband, Eivor. We will not harm you, and you have nothing to fear from us.” She cast another glance toward Eivor, who answered her with a flash of his tongue from between his lips. “Do not worry, he is a friendly troll summoned to protect little ones from monsters that lurk in the dark.”

We had never discussed the possibility of children, not truly. It had been an unspoken part of our marriage, if the gods were kind enough to grant us a child, then so be it. Yet when Eivor crouched beside me to press a gentle hand upon Sylvie’s shoulder and promised her that he was, in fact, the most fierce some troll she had ever seen, something stirred in me, some dark desire I had never once given a voice. I longed for a child to call my own. 

“Shall we find something to eat, lady?” Eivor hefted Sylvie onto his shoulder with a bright grin that brought another round of aches to my chest. She smiled in return, despite the tears staining her cheeks, small hands fisting into his dark hair to steer his head towards the longhouse.

Again came the ache, and I realized it was pangs of longing. Longing to see Eivor hoist our own child upon his shoulder, to speak gently to them as he did to Sylvie as we walked. To tell tales of great battles of Odin met by choruses of giggles and smiles so bright they blinded me to look upon them.

It was the ache that had me watching Eivor as he set a bowl of porridge before Sylvie before he settled beside her at the table that spanned the length of the longhouse. Just far enough away to muffle the argument that floated from the throne to settle as whispers around us.

Burgred had not been cowering in his longhouse as the warriors had yelled over the din of battle. Long gone, Ivarr spat from his perch on the throne, the coward.

“He knew we meant to attack,” Sigurd added from his post of steady pacing along the edge of the dais. “I warned that you had a traitor, and you did not listen.”

“I did not hear any objections from you, Raven Jarl when your sword tasted flesh,” Ivarr responded, lazily picking at his nails with his boot knife.“Let us crown Ceowulf and be done with it. I grow tired of this land of mud and shit.” With a leer, he settled back unto the throne cushions.

“Mercia will not recognize a king without his crown,” I added from where I shifted through Burgred’s tomes and scrolls. Beside me, Eivor offered a small smile of encouragement. “And we do not have the crown of Mercia.”

“You have tasted the heat of battle, cousin, and suddenly you are an expert on war,” Sigurd murmured, pinning me with a glare that warned that I should not have opened my mouth. “Please forgive Sigrid, she does not understand such things.”

“No, she is right. Without Burgred, I cannot control Mercia without question of legitimacy.”

“And if we wish to stabilize Mercia, we will need Burgred,” Ubba continued. “And we cannot do so when we have no leads.”

“Tonna,” Eivor added, handing Ubba the parchment he’d been studying, “she has betrayed you. It looks as if she warned Burgred of the assault before it even happened. And it was she who set the trap on the road to Repton.”

“Then shall she taste the kiss of my axe, or your's Wolfkissed?” Ivarr had awoken from his stupor to twirl his axe between his fingers. “Or perhaps the Lady Wolfkissed would prefer the honor?”

“Tonna will be dealt with,” Sigurd interrupted, seizing the parchment from Ubba to study the words with a furrowed brow. “Eivor and I shall go.”

“She will recognize your faces, know you speak for the Brothers. Let me go to her, speak to her as a woman. Perhaps I can gain the answers we seek without the need for further spilling of blood.”Eivor stiffened beside me, his hand tight upon my arm where he had tried to silence my words. “I will take the girl with me, we shall be nothing more than a pair of refugees fleeing the battle wrought here in Tamworth.”

“And what then,” Ivarr asked, eyes narrowed in suspicion, though I could see the faintest hint of pride shining through.

“Once all inside are asleep I shall open the gate, and you may do what you like. Find the information you seek, kill her, I do not care which.”

“And if you fail?” Eivor’s question was hesitant, unsure, though we both knew the answer.

“Then you shall find the gate open much sooner.”

* * *

“We have nowhere to go. My husband lays in ashes, my home in ruins, and barbarians have lain waste to the fields of Tamworth till nothing remains but cinders. Please, I was told that you could help us.”I held the whimpering child closer to my side, blood stained fingers pulling at my cloak to shield us from the guards before us.

“And what of the Brothers? Didn’t want to spread your legs, little dove? Pretty bird like you would do well in their camp.” Tonna’s words settled like ice along my back, a creeping sinking feeling.

Though I had not dwelled upon it, I knew that had been the fate of Sylvie’s mother. That she had been passed amongst the Ragnarsson camp until her god took mercy upon her and stilled her breath or some miserable draugr did it for her.

It was the fate that awaited me should this ruse fail, should Tonna discover the treachery I served her with timid glances and false tears. I would be passed about the camp to warm bed and lap alike until I had been used, spent.

“I…I…would never soil myself in such a way. If you will not take me, then my daughter, Please, my daughter, take her,” I pleaded, pushing Sylvie forward with shaking fingers. “We are good Christians, we only ask for your protection.”

“And what will I get in return, little dove,” Tonna asked, stepping closer, the smell of stale sweat and ale turning my stomach. “Would you spread your thighs for me?”

I wanted to retch, to turn and run from beyond the walls that loomed around me. “I can cook, clean. My daughter can sew,” I stammered, pressing Sylvie back behind my cloak as if I could shield her from the leers, the gaze that traveled down my neck to settle upon the tops of my breasts. “Please let us serve you.”

“See to it that our guests are watered and fed,” Tonna ordered, though the way her tongue rolled over the word guests sent another bolt of fear through me. “And bring the little bird to me when you are done.”

We were quickly ushered to a small house near the gate, bowls of half moldy bread placed before us with mumbled words that two guards stood watch outside. I was able to help Sylvie dress, to keep her out of sight of the guards who waited. And then I dressed, quickly, hurriedly, much aware of the gazes that followed each of my moves.The clothes were finer than what I had ever worn before, dress heavy linen trimmed with fur and delicate embroidery of golden thread.I wondered whose clothing they had once been, had the woman to which they once belonged suffered the same fate as me.

Sylvie tore into the bread with little care, eager fingers shoving clouds of white into her mouth with a smile and not a care in the world. “Will we stay here long Sigrid?”

“No, little one, we shall not.” I forced a smile as I brushed her blonde curls back from her cheeks.Dressed in a new dress and cloak, she looked ever so much like the angels painted upon the walls of the church in Repton. And my heart ached at the sight. “Would you like to come to Ravensthorpe? There are plenty of children for you to play with, a warm bed for you to sleep in, and all the sweets that can fit in your belly.”

The words brought a brighter grin to her face, though her brow creased in thought. “Will Eivor be there?”

It had been two days by horseback to reach Tonna’s keep, yet it had been ample time for Sylvie to begin to favor Eivor. The first night, when we had camped at the base of a sloping hill of green, she’d crawled upon his lap and curled up and fell asleep listening to Sigurd and Eivor trade tales of war.

And again, the next night, when she crawled beneath the furs between Eivor and me to sleep curled up against him. When I awoke we had been tangled just so, a pair of foxes wrapped about their kit. I had decided then that Sylvie would return with us to Ravensthorpe.

“Of course, little one,” I answered casting a quick glance towards where our guards stood waiting. My stomach turned and I had little appetite for the offered bread though I had not eaten since last eve. “Sylvie, I need you to do something for me. When I leave, you are to go to the gate and undo the lock.” When she protested, I silenced her with a gentle kiss to her forehead. “Eivor will be waiting. And then you must run back to the camp as fast as you can, the one beneath the hill.”

“Take me to Tonna,” I called to the guards pressing one last kiss to Sylvie’s forehead. “She and I have much to discuss.”

Tonna was waiting before a feast far richer than any I had ever seen even in the halls of King Harald or upon the table in Fornburg. For a sellsword, it was clear that she had done well for herself, and wished for it to be known. This was not to be a negotiation, it was a seduction.

“The dress fits you well, little bird,” Tonna murmured, rising from her throne to approach, thick fingers trailing over the tops of my breasts where they peeked from beneath the sloped neckline of my fine dress. I fought the urge to retch, to recoil at the touch. “Come, sit. Let me fetch you wine to bring warmth to those round cheeks.”

Plied with wine and sweet words, she would make me an easy target, remove whatever fight still lingered in my bones. I prayed that Eivor came soon before I was forced to stick my host with the dull knife she placed before me. “I am grateful for the food and the dress, lady.”

“And you will repay me, little bird, with work and flesh,” she answered, hand sliding down past my neck to paw at my breast. “You will warm my lap and my bed. And if I wish to fuck you, then I will fuck you, little bird. Do you understand?”

“And when my husband finds you, he shall remove your miserable head from your miserable shoulders,” I hissed in return, fingers reaching for the dull knife. Her hand was faster, slamming my fingers into the table with a wrenching crack, the pain hot and sharp where it lanced up my arm. The knife clattered to the ground, skittering just out of reach on the floor below.

“I know you.” Tonna’s breath was hot, rancid against my cheek, her hand a tight vise in my hair as she wrenched my head back far enough I was sure my neck would break. “You were in Repton, the wolf’s whore.” Again came the wrenching, my shoulders burning at the stretch, the ache. “Shall I have a taste first?” Her other hand wormed its way to the hem of my dress, rucked it to my thighs. “Show you my tongue before I kill you. Should I cut you up pretty, send you back in pieces, little bird? You and the little brat?”

I struggled against her, fingers splayed wide where they reached for the knife, body writhing against Tonna and the chair stiff at my back. I prayed to whatever god would listen, to Thor, to Tyr, to Freyja, though none answered in return.

And then my fingers closed over the hilt and I thrust it back, Tonna’s scream loud and harsh over the pounding in my ears. She released me to press her fingers to her head and I stumbled towards the entrance on uneasy steps. “Do not touch me,” I hissed, rounding on her, the knife held out between us. I had caught her on her forehead, the gash cutting through her thick brows, her blood slick on her cheeks and my fingers.

“I am going pluck every last feather from you, little bird.” Tonna stepped forward, hand brandishing the axe on her belt. “And when I am through, you will beg for death.” I didn’t give her the satisfaction of answer, instead rushed out the door towards the gate. Eivor was waiting, my mind screamed, he would save me, would kill Tonna for daring to touch me.

I made it two steps before I was thrown to the ground, the force knocking the air from my lungs. “Did the brothers send you to ply my secrets with those sweet thighs?” Tonna’s body was heavy where it pressed into mine, her hands heavy on my wrists where they pinned them to the cold ground. “Pray to your gods, little whore, this will not be quick. And then I will find the little brat and she will take your place.”

I reared back again, reaching quickly for the knife before Tonna wrenched it from my hands. “My husband will kill you for this,” I growled, surging forward to connect my forehead with hers in a loud crack. Pain, hot and sharp cut through my skull, yet the blow was enough to loosen her grip and I flipped us, hands scrabbling around for the knife.

Tonna bucked beneath me, her hands reaching up to wrap about my throat, her thick fingers squeezing tight enough to steal my breath. Again I reached for the knife, the edge of my vision beginning to darken the harder she squeezed.

I was going to die there in the mud, and I only prayed that Sylvie had made it to the camp. I reached again, one last time as Tonna began to fade from vision, fingers finally closing over the knife.

With I cry I stabbed forward, blade entering the thick skin of her neck with a squelch. Tonna reared back, hands pressing to the wound and the blood that sprayed from it.

I stabbed again, and again, and again until her cries went silent and her body no longer thrashed beneath me. My clothing was slick with blood, my hands and hair coated in it when I finally stumbled away from what was left of Tonna, the knife falling from my hands to land wetly in the grass at my feet.

With one last cry, I joined it, my legs giving out as I finally allowed the blackness lingering in my vision to claim me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back, baby! Sorry for the delay, writer's block and real life hit me real hard over the holidays. 
> 
> Side note, did anyone else want to adopt every orphan they came upon in the game? I just wanted them to all live happily ever after in Ravensthorpe. 
> 
> Hey Ubisoft, please give me a DLC that lets me adopt all of the kids.


	10. Chapter Eight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I prayed to the gods. To Niorun that my dreams would be free of the evil that lingered within it. To Freyja that I would be a good wife and endure whatever trials had been set before me. To Frigg, that I would bear my husband's children, that I would one day see his gaze soften at the sight of his own child.
> 
> And most of all, I prayed that the gods listened.

“…And he got so drunk we had to fish him out of the water before he froze to a block of ice.” I nearly fell from my seat from the force of my laughter, so much so that Torrun had to reach out to steady my movements. “And when we fished him out, he asked us to put him back. Said he wanted to be a fish.”

“Can I be a fish, Sigrid,” Sylvi asked, looking up from where she fiddled with my bow lain at our feet. And as I had all morning, I plied it from her hands with a gentle smile. She had been bathed and dressed, and with her fur trimmed cloak wrapped about her shoulders, she looked very much like a proper vikingr. “Just like Eivor?”

“You shall have to learn to swim first, little one,” I answered, smoothing her curls back from her face. “We shall have to ask Eivor to teach you when we return to Ravensthorpe.” Despite all his efforts to remain fixed upon the approaching shore, my husband’s lips quirked in a small smile. And then a grin when Sylvi babbled on about the type of fish she would be.

“Will you teach me to swim, Eivor?” Sylvi had abandoned the bow at her feet to gaze expectantly towards my husband, her bottom lip sucked between her lips in a pout.

“Only if you promise to behave, my lady,” Eivor answered climbing down from his perch to settled beside me. “For if you do not, Sigrid will make us sleep in the stable with horses.” With a mischievous smile, Eivor gave a sharp tug to my braid.

“And if Eivor continues to be a naughty raven, he shall find himself in the stables much sooner.” I accepted his offered kiss with a frown of mock annoyance. “Or perhaps he shall have to swim the rest of the way home.”

Ravensthorpe appeared unchanged, the main streets still bustling, the sound of the market floating to settle around our longship when we docked. “Hello! And who are our guests?” Randvi met us at the docks, arms stretched wide in greeting, her smile bright and welcoming. Sigurd met her first, a pair of chaste kisses pressed to her cheeks and a mummer of greeting. Eivor followed Sigurd up the hill toward the longhouse, Sylvi excitedly pointing out the sights around them from her perch upon his shoulders.

“This is Ceolbert,” I answered, helping him from the longship, “his father sent him all the way from Tamworth to learn more of our people.”

“I am honored to meet you.” Ceolbert slid into a bow, his smile as wide as it was genuine. “Sigrid has taught me much during our journey, but I am eager to learn more.”

“Such manners,” Randvi exclaimed, amusement barely concealed in her tone. She directed Ceolbert towards the longhouse with a promise to join him later. “He shall fit right in with this lot. And perhaps he shall impart some of his manners upon the stinking vikingrs we have married.”

“O, Eivor shall never change. I find myself quite fond of his salt caked beard and the smell of England in his beard.” I slung my arm about her shoulder, both of us devolving into giggles as we walked towards the longhouse. “I have seen much of England and I still find it all so strange.”

“The girl?”Randvi halted our steps at the doors of the longhouse, casting a gaze toward the silhouette of my husband where he tucked Sylvi amongst the furs of our shared bed. He left her with a gentle pass of his hand over her curls and a kiss to her forehead. Again, the ache clenched in my belly. “Eivor seems taken with her, as do you, sister.”

“Sylvi. She lost her mother at Tamworth,” I answered, accepting a quick press of Eivor’s lips when he passed us to join Sigurd back at the docks. “We found her wandering the streets of the city alone. Her mother…” I sighed, casting one last look at the child before following Randvi to her stacks of parchment and maps. “My guess is that she was carried away by Ragnarsson men.

“Her fate?"

“That I do not know, but you hear tales of what happens to a woman caught in the midst of war.” Randvi nodded, her hand closing over mine when my words faltered. It was a common enough truth, one that every woman had told to her when she was a child. My own mother had spoken the words in my ear when men had invaded our home when I was a girl. Do not let them take you, Sigrid. It is better to die by the sword or your own hand than to endure what would follow. “She will have a good life here. You were right to bring her with you. Though, I wonder if it is because you suffered the same fate?”

“No, I do not think that is why. Now let us speak of something more joyful. You are waiting very patiently for news of our success,” I answered with a small grin, free hand twisting one of her raven head markers where it lay on the map.

“I am, but considering the happy nature of your return, it is good news?”

I nodded, settling the piece beside the piece that lay atop Grantebridgescire. “The Brothers have agreed to an alliance, as did King Ceowulf of Mercia.”

“That is good news indeed,” she answered, straightening the piece with eager fingers. “We have been in England for a short while and we already have allies. You have done well, sister.”

“You will find that I have done little to help.” I settled my fingers above the marker over East Anglia with a deep sigh. In the end, I had spent much of my time within the healer’s tent, rendered hoarse by the deep bruises that peeked from below my neckline. I had only heard of our victory when Eivor returned to sing the tales of his success. “It was Eivor and Sigurd who secured our alliance.”

“Your husband speaks otherwise, but come, let us not dwell on such matters.” Randvi looped her arm through mine. “We shall feast to our new alliance. You will help me plan for the rest of the afternoon, and this eve we will celebrate.”

“I would very much like to rest, sister. Ledecestrescire is two days by longship and I wish very much to sleep in my own bed.” It was true, I had no head for drinking or feasting, only for the weariness that settled in my bones, for the ghost of the feeling of thick fingers wrapped about my throat. “I will join you at the feast, I promise,” I answered, pairing my excuse with a forced smile, one I hoped was sincere enough to pacify her concerns.

Sylvi was waiting, curled up asleep beneath the furs, her small fingers fisted in the cloth of my pillow. The sight brought a fresh ache to my belly, hot tears to my eyes.I settled beside her, smiling wearily when she turned to pillow her head against my chest. “Good night little one,” I murmured pressing my lips to her hair. “May your dreams be free of shadows.”

Though I whispered the words to her, I knew they were more for my own sake. For the dreams in which I choked, in which I died by thick hands wrapped around my throat until the last of my life bled out of me and onto the fields of Mercia below.

The first night, it was Tonna.I had awoken with a cry, startling Eivor from his slumber with wild eyes and panted breathes. He had held me in his arms while I shook like a babe until I finally slipped back to sleep.

The second night it was a man I did not know though I swore I had heard his voice before. Shrouded in shadows, his hands were steady around my throat. He whispered his apologies, that his hand had been forced, that he had loved me, yet he did not waiver until at last my breath stilled.

I awoke alone amongst the furs of the longship, and instead of seeking out Eivor, I prayed to the gods. To Niorun that my dreams would be free of the evil that lingered within it. To Freyja that I would be a good wife and endure whatever trials had been set before me. To Frigg, that I would bear my husband's children, that I would one day see his gaze soften at the sight of his own child.

And most of all, I prayed that the gods listened.

* * *

The feast did little to lighten the darkness that hung on my shoulders since Eivor had awoken me from my sleep with soft kisses and the promise that we would dance until I could no longer walk. And then he would carry me to our bed and we would not rise until the sun had again set in the sky.

I feasted, I drank, spoke fondly of our journey, smiled when I was expected to, yet it all rang hollow, false. I felt much like Randvi did in her marriage, that I was only acting as I was expected to. Another fitful sleep had left me worn, spread too thin like cloth that had begun to fray at the edges.

Eivor had did much to try to lighten my mood. Had stuck by my side most of the night, had plied me with plates of food and flagons of mead, yet each smile was fleeting, each burst of laughter false.

I had forced him away with another excuse to join him later, had resigned myself to watch as he spoke with Hytham and Gunnar. Sylvi sat upon his shoulders, giggling as she tugged on his braids with eager fingers. Eivor smiled brightly and detangled her hands from his hair with words I could not hear. Again another set of laughter, this time from them both when she began to tug on his beard instead.

“You’ve been quiet, sister.” Randvi settled beside me, her offered flagon abandoned on the table before me. “Something troubles you?”

“I have found that much has troubled me as of late,” I admitted, settling against her with a sigh. “And that my thoughts often dwell on what could be.”

Randvi answered with a knowing smile, her arm a comforting weight where it rested on my shoulder. “Men with children,” she murmured, head resting upon my cheek., “it stirs the desire deep in your belly.”

“So it does,” I admitted, again drifting to the sight of my husband and the child he lifted from his shoulders. Again I tried to imagine him doing so with our own child, a girl with his blue eyes and my dark curls. And again the thought brought a deep ache to my chest. I choked out the excuse that I needed air, the scent of the feast, the sight before me too much to bear.

The streets of Ravensthorpe were empty, silent, and I was thankful for the solitude as I walked towards the docks, though I found them occupied by another who clung to the same heaviness that burdened my mind.

“Should you not be celebrating the alliance you worked so hard to secure,” I asked when I stepped to stand beside Sigurd. He did not look up from where his gaze had settled upon the rippling water illuminated like steel in the moonlight.

“And what of you cousin? Should you not be feasting and dancing?” Sigurd looked up from his staring, an odd fog still lingering upon his brow.

I sighed, arms folded about my chest to protect against the chill that seeped beneath the thin fabric of my dress. Blue, sewn from a bolt of dyed linen the color of a robin’s egg. “I have found that I no longer have a head for such happiness. That I have left whatever joy I once felt in the mud and fields of Mercia.” The water rippled, waves lapping at the shore over the found of feasting at our back. “There are thoughts that linger in my mind, a loneliness that does not feel like my own.”

“I have found my dreams troubled of late as well. That often my thoughts are not my own,” he answered, shifting to bump my shoulder with his own. A gesture that since childhood had lifted my spirits, though standing upon that dock it did little to soothe the storm that raged inside my chest. “There was a man in Miklagard, a sailor. He suffered the same as you, with a mind still trapped in the throes of war. Battle sickness, that was what the men called it. The sort of sickness that seeps into your dreams and thoughts until little remains but your own.”

“A sickness indeed. I still dream of that night, of the feel of her hands about my throat, the way her breath turned my stomach each time she panted against my cheek, the slickness of her blood when it coated my fingers.” I let my fingers trail to the yellowing bruises upon my neck, no longer hidden behind the collar of my dress. “I have begun to feel it upon waking, begun to wonder if I am going mad.”

“To kill another in such a way, it will linger,” Sigurd answered, gaze traveling back to the water. “My first was a boy, no older than myself, a child just old enough to know the taste of war. He haunted my dreams for weeks after the battle.”

“And the dreams faded?”

“In time. As will yours, cousin.” We settled into a comfortable silence, naught a sound between us save the lapping of waves and our own steady breath.

“You are leaving,” I asked, casting a glance towards the pack that lay at his feet. “so soon after you have returned?”

“I turn my gaze south, to Oxenefordscire and the possible alliance there.” Sigurd smiled, softly, and for the first time since we arrived in England, it felt genuine.

“You’ve grown restless in one place,” I answered, my own smile stilted, forced, “I have seen much the same in my own husband. Looking constantly towards the horizon, to the next adventure.”

“Eivor? No, you have made him as soft as a skald, cos, soon you shall turn him into a farmer and I shall lose my fiercest vikingr. Now wish me safe journeys, and pray to the gods that we may cross paths again soon.” Sigurd was gone with one last bump of his shoulder.

I tried to cling to the silence, to keep my feet rooted to the dock beneath me. To not let my thoughts drift across the water and the land to that abandoned keep in Mercia. My fingers clung to thoughts of Eivor, to our warm bed, to the merry sound of drinking and feasting that floated down to settle where the darkness once lingered.

Heavy steps approached and I did not need to turn to know who approached. Instead, I slumped against them when they stood beside me, accepted the cloak that they draped upon my shoulders with a gracious smile. “Sigurd has gone,” I murmured when their fingers deftly undid my braid to let my curls spill down my back. “South to Oxenefordscire.”

“Come inside wife. Let me warm you with sweet dances and honey mead. No talk of alliances or of Sigurd,” Eivor answered, his lips soft where they pressed against my cheek, his hands even softer where they lay upon my hips as if he thought I would break under the touch. And I felt like I would. “And when we are finished, let me warm you in our bed. It has been too many moons since I have been between your thighs.”

I let Eivor lead me back to the longhouse, let him hold a flagon of honey mead to my lips. Let myself linger in the warmth that seeped down my throat to pool in my belly.

I danced, I laughed, I lingered in the happiness where it burned quick and hot in my blood. I allowed him to press kisses to my lips, to whisper his love into my ears with little thought to whatever had plagued me since we had left Mercia. And when I could no longer dance, Eivor drew me to our bed and pressed me down into the furs with kisses that stole my breath and addled my mind.

“Do not tease, elskan mín,” I groaned when his fingers rucked up my dress to slip between my thighs. “Not tonight, please.”

“Sigrid.” My name was whispered into the softness of my belly, then again into the skin of my left thigh. “Let me warm you, ástin mín.”He bit at the flesh, teeth teasing, worrying the skin until deep red blossomed along my pale skin. His lips came again this time between my thighs, his fingers joining suit, pressing sweetly inside until all that tumbled from between my lips was his name, over and over again.

“Eivor,” I moaned, hands fisting in his hair to hold him to me, to push him away, I was unsure of which in the thick haze of pleasure that twined and climbed within me til it was all that lingered in my blood.

He feasted like a man starved and I was the first meal to pass his lips in many moons. Each press of his tongue, his fingers were too much, the sensation blooming deep within me, a fire chasing away all the darkness that lingered within me. “O, elskan mín, please,” I chanted, fingers stuffed between my lips to silence the litany of moans that spilled from me. “Please, Eivor.”

He grinned wolfishly, his free hand tightening upon my thigh, fingers pressing enough to bruise. I cried out again, sound punched from my lips, fingers doing little to stifle the noise. His eyes flashed a dangerous blue, mischievous smile wide, sharp. And then again his fingers curled, shifted, rough pads rubbing against some secret part within me that tore cry after cry from my lips. The pleasure that surged in its wake was unlike any I had felt before, flames scalding over my skin and through my veins.

He sucked again, fingers curling towards my belly and I was lost, my loud cries barely stifled behind my fingers, my head hitting the furs with a dull thunk as pleasure surged through me. My body arched, taut as a bowstring, fingers scrabbled desperately at the furs, at Eivor, at nothing at all. I could not think, could not breath, could only linger in that haze of pleasure. And then the bowstring snapped and I fell, hard and fast from my peak to flop boneless against the furs.

Eivor grinned again, his fingers shoved between his lips, tongue working each digit with eyes fluttered closed as if the taste was sweeter than any honey of the gods. “A valkyrie has flown to my bed,” he murmured, fingers tangling in my hair to pull me into a kiss that stole the air from my chest, “and I do not wish to let her go.” My mind dimly registered the feel of my dress being pulled off and cast aside and my camise soon joining till I was bare, stretched out across the furs.

“O, elskan mín,” I gasped, hands joining his to pull at his shirt, his breeches, desperate to feel him against me. His shirt came first, blue fabric pulled free so that my hands could roam the planes of his belly, trace my fingers over each bruise, each scar. “My love, my Eivor.”

He answered with a gentle smile, a swipe of his thumb over my bottom lip. “Such beautiful skin, flushed red as Idun’s apples.” His hands slipped down the skin of my throat to cup my breasts, to bring them to his lips, to capture the nipple between his teeth. My answering groan was loud enough that I clapped my hand over my mouth to stifle the sound. “And your breasts,” he groaned, biting his way back to my lips, hands rough where they cupped my breasts, his thumbs stroking over each of my nipples, each swipe stoking the pleasure slowly rebuilding within me.

“Do not tease,” I murmured, surging forward to capture his lips in my own. “Please, elskan mín, I need you.”

His hand left my breast to slip between us, teasing along my skin as it went until it settled between his own thighs, palm stroking along his length. “You lack patience, wife,” he murmured, giving one last pump of his fist before he surged forward. Eivor pushed forward til his hips ground against my own, his skin impossibly warm as he settled over me. His hands gripped my thighs, pulled my legs to wrap about him as he began to move, sweet rocking that chased away the darkness, replaced the feeling with unyielding warmth until all I could feel was him.

His pace quickened, his hands roamed until they found my own and tangled our fingers just as he tangled our tongues with each fevered kiss. I was rising again, pleasure cresting again as a tightening in my belly, a lingering heat along my skin. “I have you, ástin mín,’ he murmured upon my lips, his hand slipping along my belly to stroke again between my thighs. “Let go.”

And I did, pleasure again surging in another burst of white, another tightening, and release. Eivor pumped once, twice before he stilled with a groan he muffled into the skin of my neck. Warmth surged within me, and I prayed to Freyja that his seed would take root and grow. Eivor slumped over me, his breath impossibly hot upon my sweat slick skin, his hands still stroking over my shoulders with broad strokes.

“O, my love,” I murmured, fingers carding through his hair with slow stokes, “elskan mín. I have missed this.”

“As have I, wife,” he answered, teeth nipping gently at my jaw before he pillowed his head against my shoulder. “Though,” another nip to my skin, “to hear you cry another’s name while I am within you stung worse than the kiss of any sword.”

“What?” I pushed him off, sitting up to pull the furs to my chest. Below, Eivor collapsed back, his dark hair fanned around him, his eyes hooded, his lips spread in a lazy grin.

“It is not the first time I have been called a god, though to be compared to Frejya was a surprise.” His lip was pulled between his teeth, his shoulders shaking with mirth.

“I didn’t…oh you troll,” I exclaimed, fist thumping against his chest when he surged forward to capture my lips in a kiss. “That was not meant for you!”

“Then you should not have called it out so loud, ástin mín,” he teased. I silenced him with a kiss, hands winding into his hair to hold him close. “Should we make sure your prayers are answered, wife?” His fingers trailed down my back to cup my rear and haul me into his lap. “Ensure my seed takes root?”

“Maybe so.” I smiled brightly and moved to silence his teasing with another kiss when screams floated in from the docks.

I scrambled off Eivor, hands groping for my camise and dress as I struggled to hastily pull them on. “Eivor?”

He dressed quickly and pulled his axe from where it was discarded near the door to our bedroom. “Stay in the longhouse,” he instructed pressing my dagger into my hands once I finished dressing.When I moved to follow, he stopped me with a soft kiss. “Gather up the rest of the women and children. Do not open the doors until it is safe.”

“And what of you?”

“Do not worry, ástin mín,” another kiss this time to my forehead, “you’ve married a fierce vikingr, wife.” He was gone with one last press of lips to my own.

In the feast hall, I found most of the women and children huddled about the tables, few warriors sprinkled between them, but no Randvi amongst them. The sound of swords clashing and battle cries filled the empty air of the hall only broken by the nervous cries of a babe and the occasional murmurs of voices.

I settled into the furs upon our shared bed, Sylvi curled up on my lap, her face buried into my neck, her small hands clasped over her ears. “Shh, little one,” I soothed, hands smoothing over her hair as I tried to recall any song my own mother had sung to me as a girl, “Eivor will protect us.”

And he did, embracing me when the last of the invaders fell to his axe. Under my grasp, his shoulders shook, his body stood taut, and when we parted his anger flared in his clear gaze before he could tamp it down. When I tried to soothe his anger, smooth the crease between his brow with gentle kisses, he pulled away, pushed my hands away to push past Dag and Randvi back towards the dock.

He made no other sound save one last call over his shoulder as he pulled his axe from a back with a loud squelch. “We make for East Anglia.”


	11. Chapter Nine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The parcel was drawn easily from the depths of my pack, the fragile bit of bone wrapped in a bit of cloth to protect it from our journey. It was cool in my hand, and though it was such a slight thing, it felt as if it weighed more than any axe or shield I had ever shouldered. To quicken your womb, little wolf. Valka had whispered the words into my ear when she pressed the charm into my palm before we had departed Ravensthorpe. I bristled at the name, hand closing tightly around the bone charm as if I had been overcome by the strength of Thor and could crush it between my fingertips.

When I was a child, I had favored tales of maidens and warriors, of gods brave and strong who loved fiercer than the battles they fought. I had begged Hlif for those stories as often as she would tell them, would force Sigurd and Eivor to play act each one. I played the maiden, the prize to be own, the one who would swoon each time I was rescued.

I would marry a great vikgnr, I whispered to Eivor once we had finally grown tired of play acting and had snuck into the kitchen to steal sweet rolls, and would become a princess. I would live out the rest of my days surrounded by an army of children and a handsome warrior to warm my bed. He would rescue me from danger and uphold my honor and would ensure that I was draped in jewels and furs.

Though there were only ten winters between us, Eivor had sworn there over our shared sweet roll that he would serve as my protector regardless of the man I chose as my husband. And I accepted his offer with a toothy grin and the last of our sweet roll. And I had been a fool for doing so.

“Sigrid, stay with…”

“With the horses, yes you’ve said that already,” I finished, bristling at the command, though I accepted the reins of his horse without another complaint. I had learned early in our journey that my complaints often fell upon deaf ears. I would have better luck arguing with the stones beneath my horse’s feet than I would my husband. “Go protect my virtue, oh brave vikgnr.”

He was off, for the second time since we had broken camp that morning, again heading to the bushes after an imagined pursuer with a suspicious narrowing of his gaze and a hand upon his axe. And once alone, I relaxed back into the saddle with a deep sigh, the tension between us bleeding from my shoulders with a whoosh of warm air.

Again his suspicion, only made worse by the assault upon Ravensthorpe, had stalled our journey on the road to Norwic. Once it had been understandable, the memory of invaders fresh in both our minds. Yet now his thorough search resulted in scaring a pair of squirrels from the bushes and nothing more. And each time we halted and he lumbered into the bushes with the same order to remain with the horses, the allure wore off until my mood was as sour as the raspberries I had tucked into the folds of my apron each time our journey halted.

Though I supposed I could blame my sour mood upon the fact in the past two days, Eivor and I had spoken but a handful of words between us. I longed for the easy conversation that normally passed between us upon our travels instead of the strange silence that had settled between us. We had been reduced to greetings of good morrow, instructions to wait with the horses, a soft declaration of goodnight when we lay beneath the stars, a quiet order to stay still when he rucked up my dress and rolled me onto my belly to rut against my bare bottom, and again a greeting when we awoke in the morn.

“The road ahead is clear,” Eivor murmured, so softly I was unsure I heard him when he climbed back atop his horse. “We should arrive in Norwic within the hour.”

“Are those words I hear from your lips? I have nearly fallen from my horse in surprise, husband,” I mused, biting back my grin when he answered with a glare. _Do not prod a bear_ , Hlif had warned us as children when we had returned from the fjords with news of a polar bear cub wandering between the trees. When we had asked to keep it as a pet, she had warned us to never trouble a bear. And though her warning was of beasts, I found that it applied to husbands as well. “I have forgotten the sound of your voice. Have you found something in the bushes to loosen your tongue? Another squirrel perhaps?”

“Sigrid…”

“Has Odin himself appeared to lift your foul mood?” Again my giggles were answered with a glare. “We would have reached Norwic sooner if you did not insist upon checking each bush and tree, husband.”

He did not answer, though, with the storminess heavy upon his brow, I did not expect him to do so. Another few moments and we had slowed again, Eivor’s eyes drifting about the road to settle upon an overturned cart peeking from beneath the thick foliage of a raspberry bush.

“And what do you think awaits us there, elskan mín? Perhaps another squirrel, or mayhaps a rabbit?” My words stilled his movements upon his saddle for but a moment before he continued. “Eivor…” I warned when he insisted upon hulking off to examine the cart. If he intended to search the surrounding woods for imagined danger, then I would spend mine picking raspberries. Instead, I was stopped by my husband who simply shook his head, yet made no move to speak. “Shall this be our marriage then? Will you no longer speak to me? I know in your marriage vows you swore to protect me from danger, but this is absurd.”

A grunt came in reply as Eivor reappeared back from behind the cart stuffing silver into his coin pouch.Without a word, he climbed back atop his horse, and again we continued on our journey until I could take no more of the silence. “Eivor!” I reached out and stilled both our horses with a sigh and a sharp yank of his reins. “Speak to me, please, elskan mín, I can no longer bear this silence.” His answer was a sharp click of his tongue and again his horse set off down the road leaving me to glare at his retreating back. “Fine, you troll,” I called to his back, “I shall just have to throw myself upon the first bandit we see. Perhaps they shall serve as a better company than my husband has.”

And though I tried my hardest to bait him, Eivor did not respond. Again and again I used soft words and tales of battle to coax him from his silence, and each was met with the same furrowing of his brow and a grunt of annoyance. Instead of the reconciliation I craved,I fell into a mood nearly as foul as his just as Norwic appeared over the crest of the final hill, and with it, little hope of whatever this darkness between us clearing.

* * *

To hear others speak so hopefully and fondly of marriage and weddings did little to improve my sour mood, and news that we were to ensure the union and ascension of yet another simpering king did little to raise either of our spirits. I had wanted nothing more than to crawl beneath the furs of our borrowed bed and sleep until the next moon rose in the sky.

It was not that I had no desire to help whatever king or lord required our intervention, it was the journey that had taxed so heavily on my charitable spirit. Oswald seemed kind enough, more suited for the life of a skald than a king, yet I found his jovial company a soothing balm upon my stormy mood. He spoke so fondly of the people of East Anglia, of Elmenham, and the beautiful flower lined streets around us. And Elmenham was a town so unlike the brown and grey landscape of the plains of East Anglia.

It reminded me of the streets of Alrekstad, its people dressed in fine cloth and upon their hips, they carried baskets laden with food and offerings towards the longhouse. He’s done well for himself, Eivor mused when he fell into step beside me, our horses left at the stables, it would do well to align ourselves to such prosperous lands.

I could easily imagine Ravensthorpe growing into such a place, its streets and people growing fat from the riches of our alliance. And despite the cloud between us, I allowed Eivor to loop his arm through mine and for him to guide my head to rest against his shoulder.

“Well look at that,” Finir had managed to sneak up on his, hands rough when they clapped upon our shoulder. “With a love like this, perhaps Oswald might have a chance.” Before either my husband or I had a chance to answer, to explain that we were not the picture of wedded bliss, Finir was gone, chasing after a maid carrying a cask of ale.

Dinner, Oswald had promised, a simple dinner with his intended and her brothers. No talk of war, or alliances, just a chance to speak, though Eivor admitted it was to be a show of force, to prove that Oswald was worthy of marriage. We were there to bolster his claims, and that was all.

Though as we sat at the long table, neither of us made any effort towards conversation, instead of finding camaraderie in the depths of our flagons as if they were far more interesting than those around us. I had tried an hour ago to coax Eivor to speak, my shoulder bumping his with a nod towards where Oswald floundered. My husband simply pulled his hood up and went back to nursing his mead.

My foul mood had lingered as the rain had for most of the evening, and despite forced pleasantries neither had abated. I had been isolated to the head of the table to sit beside Valdis after I had remarked that Eivor and myself were hardly experts on a happy union, and perhaps the betrothed should do better to speak with another couple about how to achieve a prosperous marriage. And thus I had been banished with my husband’s instructions to speak with the bride to be about the wonders of marriage and to answer any questions she may have.

I offered little advice, instead choosing to nurse my second flagon of mead with wistful sighs while I listened to Eivor argue with Brothir or Broder, I did not care enough to discern which he currently found fault with, it seemed he found fault with most in his path.

“We’d all be safer if you had the stones to stand up to Rued’s men,” Eivor answered, flagon ringing loudly throughout the hall when it was slammed down upon the table. “But between the two of you, I can’t seem to find a single nugget.”

Another slamming of a cup to wood, this time from the brothers, and I found myself lifting my flagon from the table with a heavy sigh knowing exactly what would come next. I urged Valdis to do the same.

“You watch your tongue, Wolf Kissed. Or you shall find it freed from your lips,” Broder hissed, or at least I assumed it was Broder. I hadn’t the desire to learn to distinguish the brothers apart.

“So easily wounded by words,” Eivor drawled, dark beard wet with mead as he took one last swig from his flagon. “Imagine the ruin my axe would inflict on your flaccid ego.” His eyes flashed in challenge, half hidden beneath the shadow of his cloak, and I knew he was baiting the brothers. And I knew if they didn’t kill him first, I would wring his neck for trying.

“My what?!” Flagons and plates crashed to the ground as Broder leaped onto the table, his hands balled in fists as he went, kicking aside bread and meat as he approached. Oswald joined the fray, quick words doing little to silence the storm brewing between my husband and the brothers.

I moved to silence Eivor, to bite out a word of warning, only to be sharply halted by the table flying out from under me and halfway across the room with a mighty crack. The trio had descended upon each other with mighty roars, the sounds of cheers and fists rising up around them.Finir joined in, as did Oswald, both trying to break up the fighting or dodge the blows. Words were traded, as were punches, and when it did not appear the brawl would end swiftly, I finished the last of my mead with a heavy sigh.

“If your brothers do not kill him first, please inform my husband that I have gone to bed,” I whispered to Valdis with as gentle of a smile as I could muster around the ache in my head as I passed her my cup.

The short walk in the cool air to our borrowed home did little to soothe that ache, though the streets of Elmenham mercifully clear save for a scant few still closing up the marketplace. The hut was small, just off the marketplace with a view of the river and pretty white flowers that hung from the eves.

Inside were our packs, waiting where they had been hastily discarded amongst the furs. I had little energy to deal with them when we arrived, and I found that I had even less now. Though it did not stop my fingers from rummaging through my own. The parcel was drawn easily from the depths of my pack, the fragile bit of bone wrapped in a bit of cloth to protect it from our journey. It was cool in my hand, and though it was such a slight thing, it felt as if it weighed more than any axe or shield I had ever shouldered.

 _To quicken your womb, little wolf._ Valka had whispered the words into my ear when she pressed the charm into my palm before we had departed Ravensthorpe.

_I bristled at the name, hand closing tightly around the bone charm as if I had been overcome by the strength of Thor and could crush it between my fingertips. I hadn’t the thought to ask how she knew of my struggle, though I supposed it was easy enough for her to guess. A whole winter had passed since my wedding and yet my belly did not swell with child._

_“Eivor spoke of your wishes to conceive a child,” she continued, gentle smile had my sharp retort dying upon my tongue. “My mother had much luck with such a charm to bring forth a babe.” Valka closed her hands over mine, cool and ever so smooth. My cheeks burned at the thought of my husband so freely discussing such things and despite her soft smile, my skin still flushed at her words. “Wear it about your neck next you lay with your husband and there shall be a babe in your belly by spring thaw.”_

The charm was tucked quickly back into my pack when the sound of footsteps approached and Eivor shuffled in, fingers prodding gingerly at his nose. What had once been a handsome slope of his nose bridge was now a swollen lump of purple flesh that mottled the skin of his cheeks and brow. He made only a grunt of acknowledgment as he crossed to slump down onto our bed with a groan of a dying man.

“Has anyone survived your outburst, husband?” I asked when he continued to press at it with small hisses of pain.

“Brothir has a fist to rival Thor,” he exclaimed, groaning loudly when I pushed his hands away to press at his flesh. Not broken, just sore, I reminded him when he whined at each touch. “Or was it Broder?”

“Does it matter, husband,” I answered, satisfied that his nose would heal without the need for a healer. His ego, however, I suspected would take much longer to heal.

“Will you kiss it better, ástin mín” Eivor murmured, hands settling warm upon my hips. “All of my wounds?” With a waggle of his brow and a quick swooping of his head to press his lips to my neck, I suspected his intentions were far from innocent.

“As relieved I am to see your mood has improved, you are drunk.” With a sigh, I batted away his hands when they began to ruck up my camise, though a small part of me wished for him to continue for this was the longest we had spoken in days. “And I will not lie with you until the drink has no longer addled your head and you tell me what has put you in such a foul mood, husband.”

“Sigrid,” he groaned, again reaching for my waist. “You’ve already removed your dress so nicely.” His hands spanned my waist, pulled me to him so that he could press his lips to my belly. “Let me fill you up with a babe, ástin mín. Just like you asked.”

“Eivor,” I warned, hand tugging sharply on his beard when his lips began to trail below my navel. “We need to speak.”

“Siggy,” he whined, and again I tugged on his beard, harder this time until his breath escaped him in a groan. “I am tired of talking. Come, let us go to bed.” His hand was back about my waist, his breath stinking of mead when he pressed his lips to my own.

“Eivor,” I warned again, hands pressed to his chest to push him away. “Talk first.”

“Siggy,” he groaned, lips and teeth working a wet path down my neck to settle in the place where my neck met shoulder. “I do not wish to speak any longer. Let me warm you beneath the furs.”

“You have not called me Siggy since before we were married,” I murmured, nimble fingers undoing his braids. “Now what has turned your mood so, husband?”

Eivor sighed and drew me close, lips gentle on my forehead. “Get beneath the furs, wife, and I shall tell you.” He sent me forward with a wry grin and a swat upon my bottom. Eivor lingered, shrugging out of his cloak and shirt, both pooling on the ground at his feet instead of their usual fastidious pile beside his pack. His boots joined the pile, as did his trousers before he dove beneath the furs, hands warm where they plucked clumsily at my waist until finally spanning it to pull me beneath him. “Are you sure you wish to talk?”

“I do,” I answered, fingers cupping his jaw when he swooped in to kiss me. “Perhaps if you were to speak freely, then I may change my mind.”

With a sigh, he settled into the cradle of my hips, his words finally loosened, as was the shame that followed, flush splotches of red high upon his fine cheekbones. “When fists stilled and drink again flowed, Oswald cornered me outside the longhouse.”

“And professed his undying love?”

“Such cheek, little wife,” Eivor murmured, lips finding my own, and I let him this time, melting against him with a gentle sigh. “He asked me how I satisfied my wife. How I could keep her happy day after day.”

“And what did you tell him? To be as pig headed as you?

His hands found my sides, fingers teasing the flesh there until I became a mess of giggles and sobbing breaths beneath him. And though I gasped for mercy, I found none, my husband relentless in his assault until I nearly dislodged both of us from the bed with a misplaced thrust of my hips.

Breath leaving me in deep pants, I found myself basking in the lightness that had overtaken me, the feel of my husband’s face pressed into my skin, the weight of hip atop me. It did much to chase away the last remnants of whatever darkness had lingered between us.

“I told him to find a wife who does not speak and will do nothing but warm his bed.” My answered fist to his shoulder rung loudly through our small room as did the deep sound of Eivor’s laughter.

“And I shall tell Valdis to ensure the man she marries is not a troll.”

Eivor pressed me down against the bed, his hands drawing my thighs to frame his hips, fingers tight upon my flesh there. “It is too late for you, wife,” he answered between kisses, breath still stinking of mead when it mingled with mine. “For I told him to best please his wife, he must make her laugh, warm her bed, protect her above all else, and in time, put lots of sons in her belly.”

Each word, though spoken from between smiling lips, held a sort of heavy sadness upon it, and then I finally understood.

“You have not failed, Eivor,” I murmured, hands cupping his jaw to stop him from turning away. “I am happy, husband. Safe and happy.” Above me, Eivor trembled, hands leaving my thighs to fist into the furs beneath me. “And if the gods will it so, you shall too fill my belly with many sons.”

“And what if I cannot? Valka spoke of no child…”

I silenced him with another kiss, knowing full well what would tumble from his drink loosened tongue. “You shall have a son, Eivor Wolfkissed. If I must become a bird and fly to Asgard to demand one from the Nornir, then so be it.”

“And if it is not woven…” Eivor’s words trailed off to a gentle sigh, his face again buried into my shoulder. I wish I could have taken away the shame that burned hot upon his cheeks, the hot iron burn of failure that cut through his words.

“Then we shall simply find happiness in each other,” I answered, fingers carding through his hair to help calm him. “You have not failed, elskan mín. And you are no less a husband if we do not have a child.”

“Siggy,” my name was rough from his lips, choked around the hot tears that dampened my camise, “my sweet Sigrid. How I love you so.” His words floated about me like puffs of wool, light, until they settled in the space where my heart lay. “I do not deserve your love, but at least let me try.” It was drink that had pulled him to such melancholy, and it was drink that leadened his movements when I finally succumbed to his wandering hands.

Our joining was different, sharper. Each gasp was deafening, each touch the lick of flames upon my skin. It was as if some new bond had been forged between us. He was mine and I was his. King and queen, husband and wife, man and woman. I was his jarl, his ruler, sat upon a throne of the love he whispered so sweetly into my skin. Each thrust of hips, press of lips were an oath, yet it was not a the oath of an armband passed between jarl and subject. It was something deeper, more final, and in my heart, I knew it was an unspoken oath that we would endure, that despite what the Nornir had woven we would never be parted.

When we were both spent, Eivor beneath me, my head upon his chest, something changed between us. I could not say if it was his seed taking root or simply a shifting of our union, but something felt different. And as I lay there, my husband snoring softly beneath me, I pressed one last kiss to his brow before settling against him.

“And I love you, Eivor.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the huge delay on this! I promise I am going to try to get back on a regular posting schedule. 
> 
> I literally had no will to write for the last few weeks so this chapter was a struggle to write, which sucks because Oswald's arc was one of my favorites in the game. 
> 
> I wanted to clarify Sigrid's desire to have a child. In ancient cultures, Viking included, after marriage, a woman was expected to have children. So considering that would have been a societal norm, Sigrid would have heard that she would need to have children after getting married constantly when growing up. As the daughter of a jarl and niece of a king, this would have been especially true because children were often used as a way to cement alliances. I promise it won't be so angsty all the time, just had to clear up some marriage difficulties for Sigrid and Eivor. (But I also love angst so no promises there...)
> 
> Thanks again to everyone who read and left kudos on this. You guys are the best!


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